


Through a Glass Darkly

by serenevil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Gen, Non-Explicit Nudity, Non-Graphic Violence, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-31 20:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenevil/pseuds/serenevil
Summary: The spaces between.Moments in the life of Severine Snape.Snapshots of a female Snape nature.





	1. An Errant Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not profit from this work.  
> Acknowledgements: Thank you to the invaluable Duskfall of RiverClan and DracoNunquamDormiens for beta skills unsurpassed.

Spinner's End. That's where Tobias Snape chooses to house his family. A small, tightly cramped, dirty hovel of an estate. That's what they call them here: the dismantlement of a household into something awkward, broken and inglorious. A fitting home for a woman who had the world at her feet and magic coursing through her veins and gave all of it up for a man she met who had none of those and not even the faintest inclination to acknowledge the possibility of their existence.

Sometimes, in the deepest recesses of her soul, Severine allows herself to think of Eileen as  _Maman_  and herself as  _Severine_  in the way it was meant to be said, with the vowels all beautifully softened: the 'i' becoming an elongated 'e' that melts into a lovely end of longing and wanting and wistfulness. It is always uttered in that cultured, rakish purr Eileen has from smoking too many bulky, flakey cigars out the bedroom window during summers spent in France. A sweet history condensed into one faded, hazy photograph folded around a snippet of some Parisian gazette tucked into Eileen's cracked compact.

Severine's father never calls her by name. She thinks that Tobias Snape holds a deep-seated resentment towards his wife for choosing to name their child something so unabashedly foreign and, to add insult to injury, French to boot. She doesn't understand why Eileen chose to call her Severine. Eileen never even acknowledges the question no matter how many avenues Sev takes in her pursuit of the answer. Eventually, she pilgrimages to the main branch in the city centre after her local library yields no results and finds only the briefest of entries scuttled away between 'Severe' and 'Sevruga' in the crumbling, dusty encyclopaedia whose print is slightly faded and peeling amongst the feathery sheaves of paper. She's forced to give it up as a lost cause. She chalks up her attendance at the local Cokeworth Comprehensive as a tactical retreat on Eileen's part. Her victory in name leaving an open playing field where Tobias presses the home field advantage with zero remorse.

* * *

Her first day experiencing a state-funded education is both frightening and dreary. She is dropped off by an extremely prejudicial Eileen for whom the concept of public education under the age of ten is somehow both beyond her comprehension and barbaric. Eileen eyes the decrepit industrial brick building with extreme distrust. Eyes narrowed, lips pursed and brow furrowed, she takes in the other children arriving at the gate.  
"Be  _discreet_." Eileen snaps, jerking Sev's collar into place and surreptitiously muttering spells under her breath that wrap around Sev like stiff cellophane. Sev has yet to manifest any extant magical ability and this, she is sure, is possibly the greatest reason for her attendance at this muggle institution. Not withstanding her father's well-meaning stolid vehemence approximating towards some semblance of parenting.

The children filtering through the school gates and into the cracked asphalt yard look as though life has leached them of all colour. Their pale, wan faces, dusty from the pollution and debris of transit, seem to Sev as though they are looking at her through a shallow pool of murky water. Every emotion and reaction is muted and distorted by the despondent atmosphere that permeates the air of Cokeworth. Sev feels a forceful nudge between her shoulder blades and turns round to see the back of Eileen's worn cape bobbing though the crowd.  
"Bye Mam." She mouths to her feet and turns to face her fate.

"Who's that then." a frank, clear voice demands by her ear. Sev startles, bumping into the shoulder of a tall, stocky girl with bright, beady eyes and stumbles back from the force of the collision.  
"Me mam." Sev says, hesitating, as she takes in the thick coat, new shoes and manicured hands of the speaker. The girl snickers, the sound multiplying and Sev notices the girls loitering about her tall frame, smiles sharp and eyes sharper.  
"Your mum thinks you're a boy?" the girl jeers, stepping uncomfortably close, the other girls forming an intimidating cloak of bodies behind her. Sev follows the girl's eye-line to the oversized jacket hanging from her shoulders and looks back up, perplexed.  
"It's me Da's." She says, voice gravelly with nerves and low from uncertainty. The gaggle of girls giggle at her words and the ringleader's smirk blossoms into a malicious grin.  
"You sound like a boy." She says acidly, tone loud and cutting despite the noise of hundreds of children around them. Sev notices more eyes turning in their direction. She hunches her shoulders and bows her head, long hair obscuring most of her peripheral vision, the gazes disappearing amidst dark strands.  
"She's got long hair though!" a voice from the posse of girls calls out and Sev looks up too late to catch a face. Titters erupt at that proclamation and Sev digs her hands into the deep pockets of Tobias's jacket, fingers latching onto a jagged piece of metal nestled in the seam. The instigator's beady eyes alight with unholy glee.

"Oi!" A boisterous shout jars the glint from the ringleader's gaze as she's forced to scramble back or risk being bludgeoned upside the head by a rugby ball. The ball rolls to a stop right by Sev's feet.  
The same voice calls out, "Chuck it 'ere!"  
Sev lets go of her grip on the metal piece and reaches down to pick up the dirty old ball. She shakes her hair out of her eyes as she looks around the asphalt yard, filled to the brim, and sees a pair of arms outstretched over the head of a boy with rumpled clothes and hollow cheeks.  
He shifts impatiently, waves his arms and shouts, "Just  _throw_  it!" Severine purses her lips, hopes fleetingly for something undefined and sends the ball sailing over the heads of ringleader and crew, straight into the chest of the boy with open arms who grunts from the force of impact but does not drop it.  
"Cheers mate!" He yells in her direction before disappearing into the crowd just as a shrill bell pierces the cacophony of the schoolyard.

"All right! Orderly! Form lines, please!" A short, buxom woman with coiffed hair standing in the open doors calls out. The milling horde of children slowly forms a queue that begins to file into the building, Sev joining the stragglers. She watches the bobbing blonde head of the abrasive girl and her minions as they slowly move past the woman guarding the doorway. She smiles in acknowledgement as they pass her. Sev's hand finds her pocket again, her fingers running against the sharp edge of metal, slowly warming in her grip as she ducks her head, hair falling like a curtain and slips inside the school.

* * *

Sev lets herself be herded down damp hallways with peeling walls into a gymnasium with shiny floorboards, worn smooth from age. A perpetual draft from windows cracked open even in the mid-September chill of Cokeworth keeps the room the same balmy temperature as the schoolyard. The girls who had accosted her in the playground arrange themselves in a neat row towards the front, near the stage, while the grubby rugby player is nowhere to be seen. His ball however is in the hands of a portly gentleman with a rotund middle who has it nestled snugly underneath one arm, eagle-eyed stare almost daring any misbehaviour. Sev slips into a row populated chiefly by a group of boys whose heads are bent into an impenetrable circle, the only thing emanating are frantic whispers and the odd flailing limb.

"All right!" The lady from the front doors, proclaims from behind a podium located on the small raised stage. She grips the podium with rigid fingers and looks clinically into the room.  
"Settle down!" she screeches and the noise gradually abates, silence and stillness reigning.

"Welcome to a new year at Cokeworth Comprehensive. I am the headmistress. My name is Mrs. Chatham." Mrs. Chatham pauses and looks down at her papers before looking back up with a hard gaze. "I am compelled to say that students with slovenly behaviour and appearance will absolutely  _not_  be tolerated. Those of you who find this difficult to comprehend will soon discover the available resources amongst staff and faculty to ensure that you are properly prepared for class..." Sev finds herself focusing more acutely on the jagged metal piece in her pocket while taking in the assembled students. She notices the rugby player slither in through a side entrance with a flushed face and crimson ears, finding a seat at the back. He is followed by the portly man who is still in possession of the rugby ball. The man slides into a seat himself among the other teachers who exchange pointed gazes and raised eyebrows.

"...discipline is essential for the derivation of knowledge and growth to contributing citizens. Mr. Wilson!" Mrs. Chatham calls out suddenly and several heads turn in response but only the rugby player with still burning ears stands slowly, back rigid.  
"Yes m'am." He says, voice as loud and carrying as if he were still in the schoolyard; a tightly coiled undertone of barely discernible scorn the only difference.  
"Mr. Wilson here is one of our more difficult cases." Mrs. Chatham says, turning back to the assembled crowd. There is a heightened tension of expectancy permeating the air, heads strain taller while others sink in a slow inexorable drift with gravity.  
"You will find that if you should step out of line and engage in practices clearly against the rules, you will be swiftly brought to justice." The Wilson boy is as still as a soldier at attention. However his eyes are glazed, dulled to the events transpiring.  
"Mr. Wilson has been willfully disobedient since his entrance into this establishment and his transgressions are numerous and unrepentant. Today, however, Mr. Wilson committed what is considered a criminal offence in civilized society, isn't that right Mr. Lucas?"

The tubby teacher who had followed Wilson into the gymnasium stands up, "That's right Mrs. Chatham. I caught Tommy here trying to get into the supply closet with this." In his grip the tattered rugby ball is held aloft for all to see, as necks crane in his direction.  
"School equipment is only to be used during allotted physical education periods and only with permission from a teacher. Did you get permission Tom?" Mr. Lucas queries, placing the ball casually under his arm and looking expectantly at Tommy Wilson who somehow manages to stand impossibly straighter.  
"No, sir." He intones, carefully emotionless.  
"No indeed." Mr. Lucas expels jovially, bouncing slightly in triumph.

"Thank you, Mr. Lucas." Mrs. Chatham practically snaps and Mr. Lucas nods magnanimously before resuming his seat, the ball still glaringly in his possession.  
"Taking things without permission is tantamount to theft. That rugby ball was stolen today, by  _you_ , Thomas Wilson. This is a criminal offence and goes beyond even school rules but the law of the United Kingdom." Mrs. Chatham is swelling up like a hot-air balloon, filled with the self-righteousness of her conviction. Sev thinks fleetingly for a moment of the Bubotuber pustules that Eileen nurses to growths of impossible proportions before explosion. She lets go of the metal piece and instead moves to grip the edges of her seat.

"Since we are an establishment of learning, we'll have our very first lesson now. Come up here Mr. Wilson." Mrs. Chatham steps back from the podium. Tommy steps stiffly into the aisle and marches briskly to the stage, stomping up the steps. Mrs. Chatham reaches into the podium while gesturing for Tommy to step closer, her hand returning to view in possession of something Sev has seen before: a strip of wood made for a very specific purpose. Sev's grip on the seat tightens in response to Mrs. Chatham's flexing fingers. Tommy Wilson stands tall, chin jutted at a harsh angle that belies the stoicism of his stance. Mrs. Chatham narrows her eyes.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Wilson?" She asks Tommy. In the hush of the gymnasium his silence is deafening. The whistle of wind from jammed windows feels preternaturally loud. Mrs. Chatham pauses before saying softly, "Well then Tommy, you know what the punishment is."  
"Yes Ma'am." Tommy responds, not meeting her gaze.  
"Your hands, please." Mrs. Chatham asks as though inquiring about the price of apples at market. Tommy presents his palms to her, elbows bent and she snatches his hand in her grip almost immediately, as though fearing it would disappear from sight.

Severine feels some piece of herself come unmoored, as though she were an abandoned raft at sea, buffeted by the natural forces of wind and tide and waves. She feels the grainy, rough-hewn wood of the bench underneath her fingers, digs her nails into the soft mealy underside of the plank as the sounds of instrument meeting flesh resounds throughout the charged silence of the gymnasium. She feels her ribcage expanding and contracting, convinced she can hear the air whistling through her trachea and down into her lungs before rushing, galloping, pushing itself through her nose and into the room, outside of her body. She wishes, with that pull, that inexorable, unconscious, involuntary motion of breath for breathing's sake; without thought or intention. She wishes for that same inextricable emotion, the pressure gathering beneath her breastbone, to find its way out and subside as the oxygen that becomes carbon monoxide finds its way throughout her body.

*Pop*  
*Snick*  
*Rrrip*  
*Clunk*

She hears the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing and something clattering through the tableau of an audience coerced into playing witness: polite, guarded, removed and yet observing. Sev can see heads upturned, riveted to the motion onstage, while a few are downcast.  
Mrs. Chatham is gripping the lapels of her suit jacket together in one hand as she announces, slightly breathless, "I believe we have all learned a very valuable lesson from today's assembly."  
At these words, the adults seated begin to rise and the bubble of silent tension breaks with their movement. Children begin shifting and whispers traverse the rows before Mrs. Chatham, pocketing the birch rod so that she can rearrange her suddenly shapeless apparel screams, "You will all follow you assigned instructors! Any disobedience or unruly behaviour will be appropriately addressed! Conduct yourselves with rigour and have a productive year!" Tommy Wilson remains a pillar on stage amidst the chaos that erupts despite Mrs. Chatham's admonishments. Sev keeps him in her sights as long as she can but finds herself herded away before he's moved at all.

* * *

After depositing Tobias's coat with the other children as they file into the room, Sev finds a seat in a corner by a wall with windows, and observes with dawning horror as the grand marshal general and her troopettes file into the classroom. They make a beeline straight for the teacher's desk wherein they descended upon the woman in shared exclamations of rapture and delight.

A chorus of "Mrs. Briggs!" can be heard over the muted din of classmates and friends reuniting.  
"Girls!" Mrs. Briggs cries, standing up to greet them.  
"Joanna! How was your summer, darling?" She asks, looking down at the blonde ringleader with a doting expression.  
"It was lovely, Miss." Joanna responds brightly, basking in a spotlight of approval, "We spent most of it in the country with Louisa's-"  
"-with my family!" Louisa interjects, stepping closer, "The cottage at Brock-Cornwall is beautiful in summer."  
Mrs. Briggs surveys the girls as they vie to report on their holidays with a look of fond indulgence on her face.

Sev's view is obstructed by a couple of boys who fall into the seats in front of her own.  
"Mate that was rough." a boy with slick blonde hair says, slumping onto the desk.  
His friend, who sports a shock of ginger curls, responds, "Too right. O'l Hammy's gettin' vicious. The switch on the first day?"  
"Tom's an unlucky bastard."  
"Better him than me, I say. It's nice havin' dinners and free periods."  
"Fair play. Bad bit of luck getting caught, though."  
"She was in a right tit too. Did ya see her?"  
"Yeah, her tits were definitely not  _in_." Here the blonde raises his hands in a lewd pantomime of breasts, face morphing into a pinched mask in clear mimicry as he mimes losing control of two large balloons that seem to have a life of their own. His friend is nearly doubled over in mirth.  
Catching his breath the redhead say, "Lucky her goobers popped when they did. She was really going for it."  
"Got a whole summer's worth of spite, don't she?"  
"Poor sod, getting the first switchin'." the redhead shakes his head remorsefully.  
"Ham's a pig." the blonde retorts and issues a lengthy snort. The two of them dissolve into laughter that has the teacher calling the class to attention.

Mrs. Briggs calls her Sever- _in_  the first time, because the underpaid and overworked codger, staring down the barrel of obscurity couldn't be bothered to put in the effort of pronouncing it with the proper inflection. Thereafter, she is known only as 'Miss Snape' or more often, 'Snape' and Sev grits her teeth each time she hears it.

Mrs. Briggs sees fit to question her as the only new student in a well established class of primary school friendships and the class looks on in coached respect.  
"Where do you come to us from?" Mrs. Briggs inquires, perusing the papers on her desk as she addresses Sev.  
"Erm..." Sev begins tentatively, unsure of the required response.  
Mrs. Briggs looks up, eagle-eyed, and sharply directs, "Stand up when you are speaking!" Eyes narrowing, she watches as Sev stands abruptly, scraping the chair back until it thuds against the wall behind her. There is an awkward silence as Mrs. Briggs evaluates her, gaze cool and expression cold as she demands impatiently, "Well? I asked you a question. I expect an answer."  
Sev startles and says tentatively, "Cokeworth?" in a voice cracking with nerves. Joanna and her crew erupt into hastily concealed titters. Mrs. Briggs immediately raps on her desk to restore order. " _This_  is Cokeworth. What was the name of your previous school?" she reiterates, jabbing the words out like bullets.  
"This is my first school." Sev responds hoarsely, throat dry. Joanna turns vigorously to the girl seated next to her, Louisa, and begins whispering intensely. Louisa's smiles as she digests whatever information is being relayed. Mrs. Briggs turns a blind eye to their behaviour and continues her interrogation, tone arched and voice carrying, "You have never attended an educational institution prior to today?"  
"No."  
"You will address me as Ma'am or Mrs. Briggs." The teacher instructs sternly, making a note on the ledger laid out before her. There is a momentary pause in which the blonde boy sitting in front of her turns his head slightly, hissing something too quiet to hear. Sev leans down slightly in an attempt to catch the words when Mrs. Briggs looks up quickly and pointedly intones, "No  _Ma'am_." with exaggerated slowness. There is another terse pause, broken eventually by hushed whispers and a few suppressed giggles.  
The redhead in front of her turns his head even farther than his friend and loudly whispers, " _Say it_!" Sev does so with a tone so puzzled that the giggles break out in full force and Mrs. Briggs raps on her desk, calling for quiet.  
"Can you read?" She inquires bluntly.  
"Yes."  
Mrs. Briggs leans forward, eyes widened to an alarming degree before Sev catches her mistake and hastily tacks on a "Ma'am." so quickly it's like she's swallowed the syllable.  
"Write?"  
"Yes Ma'am."  
"Small mercies..." Mrs. Briggs mutters, turning back to her ledger and jotting down notes that have her immersed. Sev shifts uncomfortably and the blonde hisses over his shoulder, " _Wait."  
_ "Have a seat." Mrs. Briggs mutters absentmindedly, still writing and Sev sits down gingerly, expecting another arbitrary code of conduct to sprout out of nowhere. She leans forward on her desk and whispers a quiet " _Thanks._ " to the lads who reply, " _Don't mention it._ " followed by a hasty, " _Seriously. Don't._ "

The rest of the day passes in a slow slide of controlled tedium and enforced confusion. She is tasked with keeping the coal stove lit by virtue of her proximity to the coal-box and suffers various pointed remarks about her experience, history and lack of materials from Mrs. Briggs, who sees fit to continue her permissive stance towards Joanna and attachés. Their sly glances and whispers escalate to caustic words, forceful brushes and vandalism of her belongings in the space of breaks between lessons, study periods and dinner. The day progresses and Sev feels only relief as the final bell rings and Mrs. Briggs dismisses them for the last time.

Sev hates Cokeworth Comprehensive.

* * *

"Oi!" Sev recognizes the voice calling out and instinctively looks round to find its owner amid the bustle of children tickling out of the school gates and into afternoon traffic. Some with dutiful parental chaperones and many more unaccompanied, rowdier and less inclined to abide by the unspoken politesse of public demeanour. Sev holds herself a little tighter, muscles constricting to fill out the edges of Tobias's much shabbier coat against the flow of the crowd as she stretches taller than she ever has to catch a glimpse of Tommy Wilson.

She spots him leaning against the stairs of a side entrance to the building amid a congregation of lads and he waves his arm in recognition.  
"Over 'ere!" he calls out as she continues to stand, stock still against the tide of home-goers. She starts off towards him as though walking in a fog, uncertain to the last.

"You the one who thrown that ball, yeah?" He says, as soon as they're face to face. She looks at the boys gathered haphazardly about the steps and recognizes them from the assembly, huddled at the end of her row, holding a heated, whispered conference. She can see them eyeing her dismissively and she juts her chin just so, as she gruffly counters with, "What of it?"  
"Lads over 'ere wanna play some ruggers." Tommy starts, hands in pockets and is immediately interrupted by a tall, lanky boy who says with clear distaste, "I ain't playin' with no girl." He is met with a jumbled consensus from the reset of the group.  
"Shut it, Pillar." another boy says with a hint of menace, standing up from where he had been leaning against the railing.  
"I ain't gonna,  _Matt_. Now am I?" Pillar responds, drawing out the boy's name with a deliberate emphasis.  
"You scared of a  _girl_  beating you then?" Matt taunts to a chorus of 'oooh's' from the audience of boys gathering closer to witness the rising tension. their eyes alight in anticipation.  
"Mate, that ain't ever gonna happen, cuz I ain't lost one game." Pillar scoffs and leans back against the railing with bravado.  
One of the small crowd calls out, "You're losing the bet Matt!" which is met with laughter.  
Matts face crumples, his cheeks ruddy and he shouts, "You dickheads-" before he's cut off by Tommy with, "We playin' or what?"  
"Go on." Matt sighs, shoulders slumped in defeat.  
Pillar rights himself and states with finality, "I  _said_  I ain't playin' with no  _girl_  and I  _mean_  it!"  
"Well why not?" Tommy asks him, point black. Pillar opens his mouth and closes it like a goldfish sucking in water while Matt echoes Tommy, smug, "Yeah, Pillar. Why not?"  
"Can she even play?" A lad in a pea coat calls out derisively. Pillar's face lights up with inspiration and he turns round to shout, "Too right, Mikey!" before turning back to look Tommy straight in the eye and demand, "Can she?"  
"She's got a mean arm, wicked aim too."  
"That don't mean she can play."  
"She sure as hell got better aim than Tim." Tommy responds and is met with jeers, snickers and a very indignant, "Feck off!" from a boy with a tartan scarf and a peaked cap.  
"Well I am  _not_  playing when we're a player short!" Matt snipes, crossing his arms churlishly.  
"Can't handle the heat, eh?" Pillar jibes back with smug confidence.  
"You wanna stick it to Chatham's face? Be my bloody guest." Matt shoots back, riled. The mood immediately sobers. Pillar shifts uncomfortably and Matt glances at Tom guilt plain on his face. "Alright then. Who's gonna sit this one out lads?" Tommy asks the group and is met with terse silence. "Fair's fair. Come on."  
" _You_  sit it out, Pill." Matt suggests.  
"You  _what_?!" Pill exclaims in utter disgust as Tim calls out, indignant, "He's our best player!" Matt's statement is the hand that topples a domino reaction of seemingly ceaseless digs, threats and insults hurled at, what quickly becomes apparent, is the two teams.

Tommy ambles over to the railing and proceeds to knock it with his foot until the resulting banging settles the group. He opens his mouth to speak and is interrupted by a portly figure leaning precariously out of the nearest second storey window, yelling, "Clear off you lot! Or I'm coming down there!" The man squints down at them, leaning even further out and Sev recognizes the second chin and overflowing belly of Mr. Lucas as he shouts, "Mr. Wilson! Do you need a reminder of this morning's demonstration?" They all scarper.

Matt immediately sidles up to her as they're running through the now empty yard and out the front gates. " _Can_  you play?" He asks her, worry evident in his tone. She shrugs. She's caught glimpses of the matches Tobias watches with religious devotion in the sitting room each weekend as she tiptoes around the house with catlike agility. Matt heaves a world weary sigh and then spends the entire trek through the side-streets and alleys of Cokeworth explaining in scattered detail the intricacies of 5 aside rugby.

As they reach the outskirts of Cokeworth proper, very near Spinner's End, the road peters off into a set of dilapidated houses that are clearly uninhabited, many roofless, the rooms bare shells of boarding and walls, open to the elements. They stand by the side of an empty railroad yard where the tracks break off unevenly, rusted and warped in places and in many others completely absent, picked off scavengers.

"Careful round this bit." Matt pants, out of breath from running and lecturing simultaneously. Sev is sure to give the protruding spikes a wide berth, following in the footsteps of tartan-scarf Tim who looks back as she carefully manoeuvres round the hazardous area. "It ain't the best places but no one comes 'ere-during the day at least." He states sagely.  
"Aye. Don' be comin' round 'ere night-wise, eh?" Tommy calls out from his perch atop an exposed beam, his bulging school bag resting at his side.  
"Don' be comin' round 'ere at all!" Pillar shouts amid laughter, as his teammates begin to huddle, dumping their coats and belongings in a pile behind the shell of what used to be a shed.

Sev looks for Matt and sees him engaged in his own pow-wow and feels the pit of her stomach clench as she stands alone. She looks up at Tommy who is entranced with his hand. He forms a fist, slow and careful and winces, lays them palm up and heaves a world weary sigh. He looks up, then, and straight into Sev's eyes, gaze indiscernible.  
"Alright!" Tommy yells, breaking eye contact, as the huddles reluctantly disperse. He reaches over and gingerly pulls the infamous worn rugby ball from his bag to resounding cheers.  
"Ol' Chatty's gettin' meaner, the bint." Pillar mutters to Tim who nods emphatically and spits.  
"The terms!" Matt shouts at Tom who puts fingers to mouth and issues a piercing whistle.  
"Losers are on Ham duty til christmas!" There is a discontented muttering that spreads throughout the lads, expressions hardening. Tim begins stretching before Pill knocks him upside the head and shakes his own.

"Ham duty?" Sev asks absentmindedly and is surprised with a vehement response from Matt.  
"Chatham's a right sadistic bitch and she gets worse every year. If she finds any equipment missing, it's not just Tom on the chopping block, it's the whole bloody school."  
"Aye. Made us clean the bathrooms last year." A boy with curly hair and patched trousers adds.  
"Nah, Ben. That was two years ago. Couldn't get no dinner before summer hols." Mikey says darkly, Shrugging out of a peacoat at least two sizes too small.  
"Checks every morning, don't she?" Ben says, throwing his cap onto the growing pile of belongings.  
"Tommy's been the one returnin' things, early doors, since his dad's up with the birds." Matt says.  
"Can't do that no more." Ben comments.  
"Workin' for Da, eh?" Mikey says.  
"Aye." Looks are exchanged between them while Sev shrugs out of Tobias's coat with forced nonchalance.  
"Can't make a grammar school out of a mill town." Mikey mutters and Matt hunches his shoulders.

As it turns out, Sev is complete rubbish at rugby.

* * *

Sev learns to be a bystander in grudge matches: the adrenaline of sour, seeping resentment that fills the eyes of the injured party and the accompanying barb-wire ragged rage of retaliation setting her teeth on edge. She listens as her mother outclasses Tobias with rhetoric that belies a public school education, again and again and again, in shouting matches that last well into the night yet  _somehow_  never disturb the neighbours.

She would listen avidly to her parents loudly and vehemently conversing and catalogue what elicits the greatest reactions. On especially frigid nights when the windows will not shut right, the heated anger and vicious responses are what keeps her warm.

Her mother says 'Mudblood' with the same vile cruelty as when Tobias spits out any manner of dirty phrase and hurtful insult. When the argument spirals dangerously out of control, all manner of restraint left by the wayside and the pair of them out for each other's throats like wolves chasing a deer: hungry, hungry,  _hungry_  for a meal to fill their crying bellies. Eileen would always scream, " _You filthy Mudblood scum! I left everything behind to marry you! And you cannot even..._ " and here Eileen would fill in any manner of deficiencies she felt the need to address on that particular occasion.

Sometimes Tobias was negligent, sometimes he was mean, other times he was selfish or stupid or rude but oftentimes...most of the time...he was just-poor. And that was the end and beginning of every petty and monumental issue Eileen and Tobias have with each other. They are so diametrically opposed on such fundamental levels that Sev can never reconcile how they had managed to find one another, get married and live until she came along. She wonders, every once in a while, when things are particularly bleak and it's the early morning hours when even Tobias is sleeping, if things were ever so bad before her crooked nose even entered the picture. She can't help but think it wasn't.

Sev watches the next morning as Eileen purses her lips and scrubs down the dusty crates Tobias brings home from the mill, in the yard, the tracks in the house a blueprint to a minefield badly mapped and haphazardly navigated. Eileen is always jumpy; touchy and overly sensitive in the morning after, hyper-vigilante to any noise or sudden movement as she carries herself with a delicate finesse that speaks of aching muscles and tender joints.As a resident Sev learns to treasure the increasingly fleeting moments of peace.

Sitting before a bubbling cauldron, steam curling up the chimney, heady odours teeming throughout the room, she breathes.

* * *

Eileen is a dead, silent creature when Tobias isn't around to arouse her into paroxysms of visceral emotionality. She smokes cigarettes out the back door into the small concrete yard, languidly tapping the incinerated tobacco into the potted shrub that stands sentinel by the door. They rarely receive owls though there is always a copy of the Daily Prophet in Eileen's hand by the time Sev is awake, the house empty of Tobias's presence.

Sev shuffles into the kitchen and goes straight to the cold box in search of a bite with nary a glance from Eileen. There is a half-empty bottle of milk and some slightly suspicious smelling containers. Sev sets the kettle.  
"I'll need that flame soon." Eileen says, sharply, turning a page.  
"Why?" Sev asks, yawning.  
"Number 34's asking for more, the cow." She sniffs before taking another drag.

Sev heaves the cauldron out from the cupboard under the sink. The thunk of it landing on the counter has the kettle wobbling, ever so slightly, on the hob.  
Eileen heaves a sigh as she says, "Go on and get it."  
That has Sev scrambling up the stairs to retrieve her mother's wand before the words have fully sunk into her conscious.

Eileen's wand is of a short and tastefully embellished wood that always warms whenever Severine touches it. The feeling mirrors the pleasant tickle in her chest that trickles down her limbs like a gentle caress of fond regard that leaves her with goosebumps from the sensation. She greets it every time, sheepishly and only in her head but it feels so much like coming home that the response is nearly reflexive. She pockets it.

She returns to find Eileen at the table with a cup of tea in hand and the kettle out of sight. Sev sighs and heads over to the stove, bracing herself before levering the cauldron and with great effort, executing a controlled drop onto the old appliance. She hears only a shuffle of paper as the resounding clang fades into the dull stillness of the room. She turns round to see Eileen hastily folding the Prophet up and moving swiftly to the cupboard under the sink.

"I'm making a Floo call." Her mother says tersely as she rummages through its contents, looking for the small tin of green powder.  
"34 needs the potion by this afternoon." She informs Sev as she marches out to the sitting room, absently smoothing her skirt as she goes.  
"Bye Mam." Sev says to Eileen's back as she disappears into the other room.

Sev moves to the kitchen table, eyeing the folded Prophet and catching a glimpse of a moving photograph depicting pandemonium and the bold heading of " _Ministry on High Alert_ " on the front before it's snatched out from under her nose by an agitated Eileen.  
"You know where the ingredients are. The instructions are in the cupboard. If you need more just put it in stasis and go down to Kettermire's." She sticks the Prophet in her purse, her lips a thin line before she whirls round and disappears, the whoosh of the fire deafening in the stillness of the house.

"It's just you and me, eh?" Severine says softly to the wand as she lights the stove with a wave, the magic buoying through her veins and smiles.

* * *

Sev is on her way to the abandoned houses one day but she feels too...hollow and restless so she just...keeps going until she finds a quiet, moderately well-maintained playground with a slide and a swing-set.  
And a girl who can fly.

"It is real, isn't it? It's not a joke? Petunia says you're lying to me. Petunia says there isn't a Hogwarts. It is real, isn't it?"  
"It is real for us," Sev says. "Not for her. But we'll get the letter, you and me."  
"Really?" whispers Lily.  
"Definitely," Sev says with confidence.  
"And will it really come by owl?" Lily whispers.  
"Normally," she says. "But you're Muggle-born, so someone from the school will have to come and explain to your parents."  
"Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?"

Sev hesitates. She takes in Lily's bright eyes and fiery hair, shiny new shoes and fingers twisting a carefully braided charm bracelet around her wrist.

"No," Severine says. "It doesn't make any difference."


	2. Hobnobbing with Snobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude of high society funny business. Sans fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not profit from this work.

Over the years Sev had built up quite a reputation as vicious, cunning, slimy and insidious amongst all circles: pureblood, extremist, muggle and contemporaries alike.

Minerva wasn't one to relegate or denigrate or capitulate or remonstrate, she was fair to a fault: Gryffindor through and through. Dumbledore was just a Pureblood, him and his batty goat-fucking brother: playing their cards close to the chest, both of them in it for the long haul, playing the long game. She isn't sure who is a greater threat.

Sev endeavoured to keep out of public knowledge and popular vernacular until such time as it was absolutely necessary and unavoidable. She created for herself a fearsome reputation as a bitch. No less, often more, she knew, in the common rooms and dormitories of houses not aligned with her own. She never let it bother her overly much. ~~Except~~ -

Despite McGonagall's spartan severity and Sprout's spotty wildness,  _Sev_ is the one referred to as manly because _she_  doesn't deign to cloak herself in witch's robes; the vagaries, the strictures of her discipline necessitating a measure of restraint: tight sleeves and flexible attire. Duelling was about as traditional and various a speciality as they came and yet it continued to modify and grow unlike the fixed tenets of Astronomy. There were only so many ways one could observe the heavens before the developments of apparatus reached their limits.

Limits she is loathe to submit to as she prepares for the evening, forgoing her usual austere uniform in favour of dress robes more refined and delicate than is her taste nor means, the glittering threads alone worth more than Tobias's entire house. She sighs in resignation as she peels open a container of refined powder and settles into the seat before the dormitory's shared vanity, resolutely ignoring the note from Regulus, abandoned in the box the robes had arrived in.

* * *

 

The soirée at Malfoy's great-grandfather's villa in the south of France serves as a grand and luxurious premises for an exclusive event and time-honoured tradition. The Blacks are esteemed among the peerage with the kind of pedigree that had society mothers salivating. To their dismay, it was Sev on Regulus's arm that night, playing the role of debutante and dilettante for all takers to the enormous distaste of Lady Walburga Black who eyed her with a pinched, sour expression-as though the dressmaker had sewn a pin into her robes and she hadn't the time to remove it and was simply enduring the discomfort for the sake of propriety.

Sev merely passed her gaze over Lady Black blandly, her circuitous mind and inescapably rigid conditioning refusing to acknowledge the conflict. Show any kind of reaction and you've already lost. Sev adjusted her grip on Reg's arm and idly tuned into his gravelly murmur.

"...and of course I can say absolutely nothing of Pimmy's menu. The hor d'oeuvres alone!..." He pauses to nod at some outrageously outfitted witch practically floating in a cloud of feathers who smiled beatifically in response but Reg was quick to move on just as she took a breath to speak. 

"You can't trust her for galleons. Blasted inconsistent taste, the bint." He gripes with a face plastered in a never faltering, pleasant expression. Sev blinks placidly and swipes a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

"Well now, _really_ , does she work for Bertie Bott's?" Sev comments as they both watch a young wizard take a bite of some assorted delicatessen and immediately spit discretely into his napkin under the guise of wiping his mouth. He pulls his wand out with no subtlety, probably to vanish the whole mess.

Reg chuckles softly before affixing his pleasant smile with renewed vigour while pulling Sev a little closer via her grip on his elbow and she knows to prepare as a woman of indeterminate age and rich attire makes a beeline for them.

"Lady Patterson! How lovely to see you!" Reg calls out, consummately polite.

"Reggie!  _Darling_!" Lady Patterson exclaims in paroxysms of delight. "Why I haven't seen you in absolute ages!" She says, giving his cheeks a proprietary double kiss, suitable for the continent.

"Alchemist's years, I'd wager!" A portly fellow, somehow emerging from behind the woman as though conjured, the bulk of him so large Sev considers it magic in itself that he had managed to remain out of sight for so long amidst the throng.

At his words Reg places his other hand atop her own and squeezes, "Lord Patterson, fancy seeing you here!" Reg comments, tone explicitly droll, exaggerating the joke for the benefit of Lord and Lady Patterson who smile pleasantly at the attempted humour, clearly charmed. "Always a pleasure, sir." Reg demurs, his rigid pureblood mannerisms as seamless as Sev has ever seen him use them.

Lord Patterson maneuvers himself just on the overly familiar side of closeness, chortling all the while as he clamps a meaty hand on Reg's open shoulder, admonishing lightly, "No need to call me sir! Eh, Reggie?" At this he positions his torso so as to include Lady Patterson before he begins anew, "My dear boy..." his tone approximating towards the conspiratorial as he leans in even further so that even Sev catches a faint but potent whiff of cheesy alcohol and swallows a grimace as Lord Patterson continues, "...call me Harold," as though he is bestowing a much sought after gift and judging by the glint in Reg's eye, he is.

Lady Patterson moves in, bubbly and loud, "Indeed if you are to call him Harold, then I  _refuse_  to be left out." She says with mock severity as she moves to place a hand on her husband's massive girth, "You  _must_  call me Georgie, too!" She trills, all light airiness, and beams up at them. Sev feels the stirrings of contempt in the pit of her stomach, at the base of her throat as she swallows heavily and forces herself to smile, feeling as though her face is an ancient and rusted portcullis, in disrepair from disuse, being hefted by an elderly infirm gatekeeper who's forgotten its very purpose.

"It is an honour-" Reg starts, appropriately grateful and Lady Patterson interrupts him, "Oh pish posh! We're all friends here!" She exclaims and smiles meaningfully at Reg as Lord Patterson agrees, "Indeed, indeed." before taking a glug from his liberally filled wine glass.

"Now, where is..." Lady Patterson starts, turning and craning her neck in all directions before exclaiming, "Ah, there she is!"

Lord Patterson hums at his wife's excitement, intercepting the path of a passing waiter and descending upon his nearly full platter like a vulture upon carrion, the waiter looking vaguely terrified for a brief moment before disappearing behind Lord Patterson's great bulk.

"Clarissa!" Lady Patterson calls in a carrying voice that has a few heads twitching in their direction before Lady Patterson is motioning energetically and mouthing in pantomic exaggeration to " _Come here_!"

Reg's grip on Sev's hand tightens significantly before a radiantly beautiful young girl of about their age materializes amidst the partygoers, her blonde hair coiffed and permed atop her head like an assorted patisserie, her long slender neck adorned with rubies of the richest blood red, starkly contrasting with her pale alabaster skin, her dark robes of a burgundy wine sweeping the floor in her wake. She is the absolute vision of society-heiress as she comes to stand by Lady Patterson's side, her gaze tempered and assessing.

"Mummy?" She greets and Lady Patterson takes a hold of her elbow which Clarissa adjusts nonchalantly to mirror the hold that Sev and Reg share. As game as anything, Lady Patterson soldiers on, not to be desisted. "Cissy, darling, I'd like to introduce you to Reggie, here."

Sev is forced to let go of Reg's elbow as he makes a very proper bow for the benefit of Lady Patterson, moreso than the young Lady Clarissa. Just as Sev catches Lady Patterson hissing to Clarissa that he's the son of the illustrious Blacks and Clarissa's whole posture shifts in response to this new information, Sev's entire sight is taken up by the enormous bulk of Lord Patterson, who has somehow managed to divest the waiter of his platter and has clearly set to work demolishing it, as he moves to stand beside her and witness the introduction of his daughter to Reg, chaperoned with a hawk-eyed intensity by the honourable Lady Patterson.

"I hear that Slytherin is doing very well this year." Lord Patterson murmurs quietly as Sev takes a firmer grip of her now flat glass of champagne.

"That it is, sir." She responds, matching his tone and decibel level.

"Many good inductees to the house this year?" Lord Patterson inquires lightly.

"We have a good batch of new recruits sorted this year, sir." She answers and Lord Patterson takes a large sip of wine, eyeing the room with a beady stare as his wife manoeuvres his daughter ever closer to Reg who is smiling with crinkled eyes, every bit the dashing beau.

"Should increase your prospects for the House Cup, I'd wager." Lord Patterson muses speculatively and Sev inclines her head minutely.

"Our prefect foresees no difficulties in obtaining the cup in a landslide victory this year." She says, restraining her smugness, just.

Lord Patterson audibly swallows, whetting his pudgy lips before haltingly inquiring, "And... how... _high..._ of a margin... would that... landslide comprise?" 

"Considering the paltry opposition of the other houses, our prefect issued an inter-house contest of 800 points, so certain was he that winning was not enough of a challenge."

Lord Patterson takes a large bite of some indiscernible entrée with great relish, his eyes gleaming. Sev waits patiently as he masticates, his prodigious jowls quivering with each bite before remarking in a slightly muffled voice, "Is that so? You have a very ambitious Prefect." His tone is tempered with some reproach as he hedges, "Perhaps unrealistically ambitious." He takes a sip of wine, eyes slivered in her direction.

Sev allows the tension to linger for a moment before replying, dismissive but stern, "While it is a substantial figure," she concedes with a tilt of her head, "the other houses are so woefully ignorant and our own so well-prepared and rife with unrealized potential and burgeoning talent, 800 is no struggle to earn." She assures him.

Lord Patterson shifts his stance so that he is closer to Sev who grips her champagne flute ever tighter and focuses on the feeling of her wand pressed to her breastbone.

"And how is this inter-house challenge monitored?" He inquires.

Sev allows a small, grim smile to grace her lips before replying, "We have all entered into an agreement administered by the Prefect which magically binds each member to our goal and certain other securities that would maximize our efforts to ensure its achievement." She takes a sip of her champagne and does not miss the look Lord Patterson shoots her way, in her periphery, as she tips her head back.

Lord Patterson takes a breath, his buttons straining and calls out, "Georgie, dear! I do believe we can let them get on with it while we old codgers go and put our feet up for a bit, eh?" back to his boisterous, jolly persona.

"Why, of course, dear!" Lady Patterson nearly gasps in agreement and bustles over to his side as Reg steps forward to graciously offer his arm. Clarissa, laughing gorgeously like a painting of wealthy mirth, glides forward to take it. Lady Patterson makes quite a fuss about the state of her husband's robes after his snacking as she reaches his side.

"Come along now." She directs, nails digging into Sev's flesh and Sev finds herself propelled across the ballroom, all the while subject to a hearty and carrying argument between husband and wife as to the questionable state of a certain crucial accessory and the assurance that Sev would competently fix it.

* * *

 

"Right, then." Lady Patterson says, her tone all business, no nonsense, once they've been comfortably ensconced in a small private sitting room near the back of the villa. "Let's get on with this then." She orders, tetchy towards her husband as she fiddles with her own robes.

Sev grits her teeth and divests herself of the champagne on a small table by a crackling fireplace.

"She says she has proof." Lord Patterson informs his wife and they lock gazes for a long moment, the crackling of the fire and the ticking of a grandfather clock the only sounds in the room.

"Show us, "Lady Patterson demands after an interminably long moment.

Sev moves to step in front of the fire directly and begins with the laborious process of disrobing.

"Harold-" Lady Patterson hedges, admonishment and warning on the razor edges of each uttered syllable.

Sev continues with the laces and catches and buttons and clasps of her dress robes, efficiently undoing them all as Lord Patterson nearly bleats, "She said it was a contract! It must be-"

The robes fall down Sev's hips and legs, pooling about her feet, so multitudinous that they skim her ankles. She catches her wand as it slips down her navel right before it drops to the floor, making no reaction to the twin sharp intakes of breath behind her, one of which is Lord Patterson abandoning his explanation entirely.

The air feels heavy as Sev lifts her wand, twisting marginally, shoulder blades flexing until it touches the base of her spine and breathing the incantation into the waiting, potent silence. Sev doesn't attempt to reign in the grin that blooms across her face as the magic races up her spine, branches across her ribs, flares out of her shoulder blades and skips across her shoulders and collarbone, electric and alive, the warmth of the fire calming, the heat of the magic exhilarating.

She hears steps moving closer as her chest rises and expands, buoyed by the rush of the spell.

"Merlin and Morgana..." Lady Patterson breathes, "This is-"

"Quite a handy little spell." Lord Patterson comments, voice significantly closer to Sev than Lady Patterson's.

"Well, that's certainly one way of putting it." Lady Patterson says after a pause.

"You can touch for more." Sev instructs and Lady Patterson exhales a quiet warning, "Harold..." before a heavy, thick finger is tapping across her back and Sev can feel the lines traversing beneath her skin searing and stinging their way into dissolution and reformation. She focuses on dragging air into her lungs as the magic gathers like a bellows in a forge, surging beneath her skin and in her veins with each touch of Lord Patterson's digits, heating her bones until they feel like they want to unhinge themselves from their sockets and divest themselves of the pesky ligaments and musculature keeping them in place and herself functioning and alive. The taps come with greater frequency and a heavier hand as Sev feels the excitement in Lord and Lady Patterson grow, judging from their hushed exclamations and ever closer proximity until Sev feels another set of far daintier, taloned hands on her back along with Lord Patterson's and feels a fleeting moment of fear: the spell was meant for only one at once- before the crest of magic, eager to respond to Lady Patterson's perusal has Sev reaching an arm out for the support of the mantelpiece as her knees threaten to buckle from the conflicting tides of the two Pattersons reading her back like a map.

"Are you satisfied?" Sev grits out through her teeth.

"Well-yes." Lady Patterson acquiesces, begrudgingly impressed as Lord Patterson continues to tap rather aggressively and with such frequency that Sev has to forcibly lock her knees together to keep them from bending double as the magic gallops through her chest and around her lungs to meet his questing appendages.

"Yes..." Lord Patterson says ponderously, as the mantelpiece wavers in Sev's vision, though she knows it has been crafted with the utmost of care and finest of craftsmanship that Malfoy gold and coercion could procure. She stares down the gilding on the protruding carvings until Lord Patterson steps back and Sev can finally breathe deeply as she wishes, gathering herself for a short moment as she adjusts her grip on her wand before twisting stiffly to tap the base of her spine once more, intoning the counterspell with a lyrical cadence and lilting sibilance, the sparking heat of the magic receding incrementally, resentful at being banished, its reproach felt in the pinching pain as it leaves her, her veins hollow and her skin frigid despite the blaze crackling directly before her chest. She waves her wand and her robes rise to settle about her shoulders before she turns to face the room and the suitably cowed and impressed faces of Lord and Lady Patterson.

"Well then.." Lord Patterson begins.

Lady Patterson blinks as though coming out of a daze as she murmurs, "Yes, that's..." faintly trailing off.

Sev straightens as much as her back allows before saying, "If that was sufficiently illuminating, it is time to seal the pact."

There is a tense moment as Lord and Lady Patterson regard one another. Lord Patterson breaks the silence with an imploring, "Georgiana..." that has Lady Patterson pursing her lips for a brief moment before sighing with gusto and allowing a terse, "Fine," to which Lord Patterson responds by pulling out his wand.

"It is not so simple, " Sev remarks dryly and they both jerk at her words. 


	3. Napkin Sketches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 1st of September 1971.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this work.  
> Acknowledgement: Thank you to the incomparable DracoNunquamDormiens for weathering the storm. A better beta there never was.

The morning of September first dawns with its usual dreary sonder in Cokeworth, the mist creeping through cracked, crooked gates and brittle, rusted fences, no different from any other autumn morning. Sev rouses from a vague dream about Chatham in rugby smalls, touting a steaming cauldron from a scrimmage and spewing flames at the opposing team, whose players are made up of wands with long blonde locks and heavy coats. She rubs her eyes, blearily catches the time and swears in consternation before throwing off the covers and stumbling through the process of getting dressed.

She tiptoes in stocking feet down the rickety old staircase, creaky despite the carpet, shoes dangling from numb fingertips, the air chilly and damp in a house not yet warmed by the kitchen stove or parlour room fireplace. She is so focused on not making a sound that she comes up against the figure of Tobias in the front hall, shrugging into his jacket and reaching for his cap. She can feel her whole body stiffen in shock, the sight of him so unexpected that she cannot seem to catch her breath, eyes wide as saucer plates and unblinking. He turns and she has no recourse but to greet him, hastily concealing the shoes behind her back.   
"Mornin'." She says as his eyes alight on her form, matching her surprise in his expression.   
"What are  _you_  doing up?" He asks gruffly, tone suspicious, eyes narrowing with the question.

"It's the first day of school." Sev answers carefully. "I couldn't sleep."

"Humph." He grunts. "Bloody useless...witches." He mutters as he stuffs a peaked cap on his head and pulls gloves from the coat's pockets. Sev grits her teeth and purses her lips as she watches him leave, a cold gust of wind hitting her full force before the door slams loudly. She stands there, limbs still stiff, muscles slowly loosening as the shock gradually abates before she plops down on the last step and pulls on her shoes.

* * *

She reaches Cokeworth Comprehensive out of breath, her nose running, her hands red and cheeks ruddy from the brisk jog.

" _Hoo! Hoo!_ " The call of a particularly nasal owl echoes around the deserted grounds. Sev cups her chapped fingers around her mouth and issues forth a corresponding, " _Caw! Caw!_ " Which is met with immediate rustling from the bushes growing intrepidly in the little patch of dirt before the school gates.   
"Fucking  _finally_! Thought you'd scarpered." Matt hisses in a carrying whisper over the unnatural calm of the dead morning before he sneezes, the noise carrying spectacularly as he ineffectually swipes his nose on his sleeve.

"You've got shite on yer face." Sev informs him, trying to rub some warmth into her cold hands before stuffing them into her pockets, knowing the friction is a temporary fix.

"Feck off." Matt sniffles without heat as he rummages around in the space between the bush and the brick wall directly behind it. After a moment, he produces a duffel bag containing the rugby ball, several pairs of faded cleats with gnarled laces, shin braces, a stopwatch and a bevy of coloured jerseys. Sev heaves a sigh. They've been getting bold since she was relegated the task of 'returns', as the boys called it.

The first time she had made this trip, after that inaugural match, it had been with the whole losing team of boys who had regarded her with a great deal of resentment for their loss. The game had been long and gruelling, the opposing team eager to take advantage of her lack of knowledge and experience, not to mention her diminutive size and laughable interpretation of the rules of rugby. She was so late coming home that evening that she met Tobias on her way in.

He had lauded her integration with the neighbourhood children, his tone oily and implying as he stared Eileen down, as though challenging her to have some opinion on the nature of friendships with Muggle boys. Eileen had glared at him and proceeded to slam dishes and drawers so viciously that Sev was forced to fetch the wand and issue a few hasty spells to remedy the damage wreaked upon the much-abused kitchen. She lay awake with her pillow over her head that night, but when she came down the next morning, there were spicy kippers with the porridge and thick cream for the tea.

"Well, go on." Matt prods, shuffling in the brisk morning, clearly impatient as he coughs into his mitts. Sev shoots him a look that he meets with a smile, "Do your voodoo, then." He nods at her and she sighs. Though her stature hadn't helped in terms of physical prowess and feats of athleticism, sneaking and ' _borrowing_ ' was something she could do very well; years of practice treading softly around sharp corners and even sharper tongues giving her all the advantage.

She pulls out the jagged piece of metal she had discovered in Tobias's coat pocket that first day. It's nearly smooth in places now. Sev moves towards the gate, adjusting her stance as wide as possible to block sightlines before perfunctorily fiddling with the lock while dutifully  _willing_  it to open. There is none of the fervent desperation they had all felt a measure of on her first day making this journey.

***

Her belly full and body warm from the filling breakfast of sausages and cream tea, she'd taken her place amidst the group huddled round the gate, the rugby ball in their midst. Ben and Matt had been arguing with increasing vitriol the longer Ben had worked at picking the lock, when Tommy came sprinting round the corner. Desperation clear in his voice, he was shouting to warn them that Chatham was on her way, almost around the corner. His whipped hands were raised as if to ward off evil.

Sev's gaze had been transfixed by the sight of those slashed palms, the earlier warmth turned to a dull heaviness as the fullness soured into nausea and a ball of distraught discomfort built beneath her breastbone. She heard the rumbling of a motorcar steadily approaching in the distance and her chest constricted in panic, her grip tightened convulsively around the chain, the other hand worried the metal piece while a heated argument went on behind her. The sound melted into a rush of white noise as the pulse in her throat migrated up into her ears and roared up like the river that flooded every spring and fall, flush with rainwater.

And though she felt the metal of lock and piece beneath her fingertips, her vision was filled with Tommy's striped palms and the rushing, roaring sound that meant their time had run out seemed to flush out down her arms and through her own blessedly unmarked palms, into metal heating to the pulsing pounding beat of her heart rattling her ribcage. Her heart beat to the pulse of the trickle that started in her chest, her veins burning with a sense of unbridled fear and trepidation, the very stones beneath her feet seemed to shake with the force of their impending doom, the tremor enclosing her boots and travelling up her calves, her knees knocking, skin goose pimpling with the force of the sensation that left her shaking in her patched, worn boots. She'd taken an agonizingly deep breath, feeling as though she was drawing all the terror with the air in a place deep inside herself until she was outwardly still and whispered, pleading, on the exhale, " _Please._ "

The lock cracked open and fell to the ground with a clatter, Severine's concentration snapped with the sound. She came back to herself in time to see the rugby ball as it soared over the fence and bounced jauntily through the yard. There were groans behind her and Sev had turned to see expressions of consternation and postures of dismay. Matt had his arms up, fingers tangled in his hair, Tim was crouched low to the ground, gaze as unfocused and hollow as if bereft from loss. Mikey was tussling with Ben as if therein lay the solution to all their problems. Tommy skidded to a stop before them, eyes wild, teeth bared, nostrils flared; like an animal on the run, he panted, "D'ya hear me?! Get outta here!" They were a tableau of horror and guilt, Ben and Mikey frozen in a pantomimic warp of an embrace as Matt and Tim merely gaped, open-mouthed, at Tommy.

"GO!" He fairly roared at them and they'd startled like rabbits and flown down the street so fast that their packs nearly fell off their backs. Tommy had turned to the wall while addressing her, "You're new, but Chats'll give you the strap anyway." He flexed his hands and cricked his neck in preparation. Sev moved to the gate to pull the chains away and bent down to pick up the lock. When she straightened up, it was to see Tommy looking at her with a gleam in his eyes. "Can you lock it up again?" Sev met him with a look of unbridled confusion.   
"I think so?" her was response, tone tempered by uncertainty.

He patted her on the shoulder before darting through the gate and across the yard, snatching up the rugby ball in his path.

***

She and Matt traipse across the deserted yard with the duffel bag hiked over Matt's shoulder and Sev examining the windows in hawk-eyed vigilance for any looming figures peering out of the classrooms. She jerks when Matt nudges her on the shoulder. "Chippin' off for good then, eh?" He asks.

Sev doesn't take her eyes of the windows of the building. Fear is a great motivator. While she's not as frightened of other teachers as she is of Chatham's wrath, she cannot underestimate their loyalty to one another and particularly Chatham's peculiar  _need_  to know of all transgressions whether they occur under her nose or not.

"Our kid's nearly got it. He'll be jimmyin' in by week's end." Sev responds.

"No thanks to your sorry arse." Matt says as they traipse through the underbrush planted round the wall. "Keepin' mum on lock picking's a shite move."

Sev responds automatically with, "Family secret," as she stomps on a fallen nutmeg rotting on the ground and snaps, "you'll live a week."

"Dunno if Tommy can  _make_ it a week without ruggers." Matt remarks with droll sarcasm.

Sev smiles involuntarily. She'd found herself in the impromptu position of referee once Tommy's hands had healed well enough for him to play and had become very well-versed in eking out red flags and yellow cards, courtesy of Tommy's lively backtalk. The various and seemingly unending ways in which the boys managed to cheat kept her on her toes (rhetorically speaking) as she fairly negotiated cards and benching like some sort of peace treaty between warring nations for the players. Bastards, the lot of them. But she never got bored.

***

Sev had scrambled to affix the lock with shaking hands, the adrenaline rush leaving veins and the muscles they were attached to tremulous. The chains clanked in the cavernous silence of early morning Cokeworth and the histrionics of earlier faded, to be subsumed by the rumble of a car as it rounded the corner, chrome and glass winking in the murky dawn lamplight. Sev jammed herself firmly between the prickly hedgerow growing wild against the gate's adjoining wall. The sleek, glittering automobile parked, engine cutting off abruptly. Sev's hiding place gave her a prime view of Headmistress Chatham as she hauled herself out of the driver's seat in order to rummage around in the boot before slamming it shut, followed by the driver's door which received identical treatment and locking both to jangle her way to the front gates. Sev held her breath, partially in anticipation and partially out of sheer fright. The mantra in her head was an incomprehensible jumble of wordless anxiety that boiled down to a strong sense of ' _go away_ ' and ' _stay hidden_ '. The silence from Chatham had Sev feeling as though her heart would beat out of her body; each thump rocked bone: the pulse of it traveled up her chest, into her neck and settled in her eardrums until it was the only thing she could hear. The dooming surety of discovery increased until the vague sense of ' _go away_ ' became a strong will to ' _get going_ ' and Sev heard the creak of the gate grating open as though submerged in a pool of water. She gasped a breath when the gate creaked shut again.

" _Hoot Hoot_." Came from above her and Sev startled violently enough to break a couple of branches when she jerked.

"Oi! Up here!" A voice hissed, and Sev's head shot up so fast, she cricked her neck only to see Tom's head bobbing over the edge of the crumbling, stained brick.

"Give us a hand!" He huffed, breathlessly urgent. Sev eyed the brick, calculating, lips pursed as she assessed the glaringly inaccessible handholds and crevices available. She turned to eye the greenery that shielded her from prying eyes and grudgingly shrugged her coat off. It landed on the earth with a solid ' _thump_.'

"I'm coming!" she called back as she climbed, gripping the branches fleetingly with a vicious sort of hopeful determination. Her ascension caused the spindly trunk to tip back so far that she could lean her back against the wall, allowing it to bear the brunt of her weight. As she reached level with the top of the wall, she had to steel herself for several longitudinous seconds before she flung herself so that her torso hung off one side and her legs off the other.

That brief, hideous moment of airborne flight was so terrifyingly invigorating that she thought she might die. Instead she met Tommy's upturned face, eyes crinkled in elation as he rushed over, arms outstretched to meet her: "Alley-oop," he grunted as he jumped and landed, dangling in her grip. He clambered up the edge, the jagged brick dug into her ribs and hips where it supported them both. Her legs kicked out in compensation for the added, unstable mass of the body of a climbing Tommy Wilson. He'd slung an arm over the wall and maneuvered until he managed to heave himself atop it.

"Are we stuck?" She'd asked then, still hanging off the wall, head turned uncomfortably to look at him.

"How'd you get up?" He'd responded.

"Climbed the tree." She said, as she carefully pulled her arms up until she could grip the top of the wall.

"What, that weed?!" He'd asked sceptically. "You're havin' me on. Couldn't hold Perry and he weighs 'bout the same as a wet cat."

"Leaned against the wall." Sev gritted out as she wiggled so that her hips could slide off the edge and her legs dangled closer to the ground.

"Huh. That's handy." He commented before there was a vigorous rustling and then an enormous ' _fwump_ ' resonated despite the bushes. Sev cricked her neck sharply to see an empty wall beside her and nearly groaned in consternation.

"Jump!" Tommy called up.

Sev flexed her grip on the brick.

"Come  _on_!"

Sev pursed her lips, a bead of sweat trickled down her back.

"Look. I'll spot you."

Sev squeezed her eyes shut.

"I'm stronger than that bloody tree!"

Sev wormed incrementally closer to the ground.

"For fuck's sake!"

She let go.

He caught her.

***

"Is it the game or just rubbin' it in Porker's face?" Sev asks dryly, tone warm and Matt laughs. "Aye, bit o' both, I'd wager." He says as they pass the windowless cafeteria and Sev finally looks up at him to see his profile as he hefts the duffel higher onto his shoulder.

"Tom's not a layabout." Matt responds, returning her gaze.

"He don't even take penalties when I card 'im," Sev gripes as they slip through the gymnasium doors. She props one open with her foot, while Matt pulls a small, scratched brass key out of the duffel's only pocket.

"Tommy never plays by the rules," Matt says as he walks to the door of the supply closet, unlocking it as he continues, "'sides, you're a right mingin' mither of a ref!" He calls from inside the closet. Sev eyes her view of the grounds warily as she listens to Matt returning his stash.

He reappears in moments that to Sev seem too long -- and perhaps to Matt as well since he jogs over to her, slipping the brass key in his pocket.   
"Bollocks. I'm a proper ref. What it is, right? You lot can't play for shite," Sev states. Matt peeks out to assess if the coast is well and truly clear, but leans back instantly, a grin on his face, to respond with, "Oi-! Stop ya chattin'!" He turns and gestures to follow him.   
"If you're not playing for England nationals, ten year's time, I'll tell you the family lock pickin' secret or my arse is balls." Sev prods, the challenge implicit despite the droll inflection to her words. Matt laughs hoarsely before sneezing so vigorously snot drips down his chin and Sev snorts. They shake on it, both smiling, and wipe their palms of snort and sneeze, respectively, before leaving the same way they came: the door closing with what Sev feels is a clang of finality behind them.

* * *

Eileen is jerky and off-kilter, unusually jittery and even less verbose than her usual silent gravestone self. She's forgone her customary early morning cigarettes in favour of oscillating between the kitchen and the parlour without either opening the cupboard under the sink nor lighting a fire. She merely adjusts Sev's coat as she walks in and settles into a seat by the rickety card table while Sev rummages through the cupboards and icebox for some food.

"Mornin' Mam." Sev mumbles as she hunts for breakfast.

Eileen hums, absentminded, as she sits and stares out the window, the wireless on some station reciting the weather report for what sounds like the whole year's worth of predictions. The Prophet sits, untouched, at her elbow and Sev eyes it without subterfuge while Eileen's glazed eyes are focused on the back door, oddly closed despite the chill. She can make out a headline that reads, " _Wizengamot to Investigate Muggle Deaths_ ". Eileen's lips are pursed, her knee jiggling the rusted joints of her folding chair. When Sev clatters to the table with a partially consumed tin of beans she snaps, "You remember what I taught you," in the brusquest tone, usually reserved for Tobias's shenanigans. Sev remembers with lucid clarity what Eileen is referring to and nods in obeisance. Eileen humphs before stalking over to the stove and lighting the gas, the kettle clanging as it's all but slammed on the hob.

***

One evening, Sev had returned home under the light of the stars and street lamps and slipped into a house that was silent but for the faint garbled sounds of a television in the front room. She had minced her way upstairs in stocking feet only to be met with the silhouette of Eileen, sat on her camper bed, illuminated by naught but the moonlight filtering through her largely intact window.

"Mam?" Sev had very nearly squeaked.

Eileen had shifted, the shadowed profile of her face an eerie cadaverous phantasm of foreboding severity.

"Severine." Mam exhaled as she lit the candle stubs on the windowsill. "How was muggle school?"

The tension around Sev's shoulders eased as she dumped her school bag by the door, and moved to shrug the overlarge coat off her shoulders.

"S'alright." She muttered, offhand, as she slung the coat on an upturned crate in the corner.

"Severine..." Eileen began as Sev slipped some long johns on underneath her skirt and a pair of threadbare trousers over those. She was shimmying out of the skirt when Eileen continued, "I have to show you something." The skirt joined the coat in the corner and Sev flopped, boneless, atop the small pile, eyes trained on her mother.

"You don't have a wand." Sev opened her mouth, inhaled to speak but Eileen interjected before she could even get a word out. " _Yet_ ," she snapped and continued, "but that doesn't mean you can't do spells." Eileen began again, hands fisted in her skirt as she narrowed her eyes.

"A spell?" Sev asked, eyes sparkling as she leaned forward.

"Come here." Eileen ordered, patting the scant space remaining on the small cot; ample enough room for Sev, who settled in beside her.

Eileen slowly relinquished the hold on her skirt and almost reluctantly reached for Severine's arm, gingerly gripping it in her bony appendages. Sev looked on in interest. Eileen closed her eyes, expression incrementally morphing into something despicable and tight; the lines around her face hardened, her brows drawn in concentration.

"Aurgh!" Sev cried out and wrenched herself away from her mother with such force that she landed in a heap on the floor.

Eileen opened her eyes and calmly informed her, "That is a stinging jinx."

Sev, chest heaving, had clamped her hand around the bracelet of fire that had swollen about her wrist. She looked at her mother with wide eyes, tearing from the pain.

"You use that on  _anyone_  who hurts you." Eileen's tone was harder than flint, her gaze frosted steel. Sev twitched involuntarily as her arm pulsed with the curse.

"Show me." Eileen ordered.

Severine bit her lip so hard the metallic tinge of blood assaulted her taste buds. She closed her eyes...

***

Eileen marches into the kitchen, her hands clasped before her, settling her elbows on the table as she takes a seat. She pulls her hands away to reveal her compact, the gold dull and the inscription faded with age and use. Sev looks up at her mother and Eileen nods, eyes bright, saying, "Take it with you."

Sev reaches with hesitant fingers, gently sliding it into her palm, holding it gingerly.

"It's been in the family for generations."

Sev looks up to see Eileen gazing at the trinket with a wistful, melancholy expression that she physically shakes off when Sev reflexively traces the smooth grooves of the clasp.

"Mind you take care of it, now." Eileen warns.

"I will." Sev promises. Her words hang between them, solemn and weighted before the kettle breaks the silence with a shrill whistle. Eileen lunges for it while looking at the clock and exclaiming that they must leave immediately, bereft of tea as they are.

Sev has packed her belongings into a faded carpet bag with a finicky clasp and her school supplies into a small, worn steamer trunk that has certainly seen better days. Her robes and gloves and cap are second-hand, her books written in the margins and marked up from students of bygone eras. Her uniform was stitched in the evenings with patterns borrowed from neighbours in exchange for balms and tonics and her scarf hand-knit from the yarn scavenged out of Eileen's oldest and rattiest sweater. Her wand, however, is new and solely her own.

Eileen takes the trunk and Sev the carpet bag, wand tucked carefully up her sleeve, as they rush for King's Cross.

* * *

The Evanses at the station are chock full of bewildered delight and awed befuddlement as they bid Lily a tender, teary (Mrs. Evans) farewell. Sev merely stares hard out the window of the compartment at the figure of Eileen, a stoic pillar of immovability, amidst the bustle of the platform.

Lily joins her in the compartment just as the train is pulling away from the station. Sev helps her pull the window open and she leans so far out while waving at her parents that Sev fears she'll fall. She grabs a hold of Lily's sweater out of exasperated practicality and chances a look over her retreating shoulder in time to catch Eileen disappearing into the mist. She pushes the window back up and turns away from the passing scenery.

"Guess what Mum bought?" Lily asks rattling through her bag before pulling out a magazine and some pens.

"Top one!" Sev crows when she sees the cover and Lily scoots over so they can both read the latest gossip on Lily's favourite soap actors, playing games in blank spaces.

They're on the crossword, possessions scattered round the compartment when the trolley comes by.

"Anything from the trolley, dears?" The portly attendant enquires kindly. Sev shakes her head. Lily spends a good amount of time perusing her options before purchasing a container of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, a Chocolate Frog and a Cauldron Cake. The attendant and trolley leave several sickles richer and several confections lighter, rolling down the hallway to knock at the adjacent compartment.

Lily jumps slightly when she discovers exactly  _how_  bouncy the lively chocolate amphibian is and lets it go in favour of reading her card aloud.

"... _Helga Hufflepuff...One of the four celebrated Founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hufflepuff was particularly famous for her dexterity at food-related Charms_. _Many recipes traditionally served at Hogwarts feasts originated with Hufflepuff._ "

"That's mint, gettin’ a founder your first card.” Sev remarks, leaning over to get a better look at the shifting portrait of a well-dressed, dark-haired witch. “Hufflepuff down in the kitchens," Sev snorts, "more like stuffin' her face... ' _food-related charms_ ', my arse..." She snarks and crosses her arms over her ribs. Lily laughs, well used to Sev's comments by now and opens the package of Bertie Bott's.

Sev finds herself offering, "Have a care with those. Mam says they're right hangin'."

Lily inspects the bean in her hand, raises an eyebrow quizzically and pops it in her mouth. She takes three chews before gagging, her face scrunching up in disgust and scrambling for her handkerchief before spitting the masticated remains out. Sev can't stop the giggles that spill out and pushes the cauldron cake closer to Lily "Here, have a bite. It'll get rid of the taste."

"That's vile!" Lily exclaims through a mouthful of pastry. "It was like... smelly socks and ...rotten eggs...and..." She shudders and takes another overlarge bite of cake.

"Maybe you got maggots or mould..." Sev speculates pensively as she reads the package. Lily slaps her arm, "That's disgusting! I  _ate_ that!"

"Says here any flavour. Guess they really mean it." Sev shrugs. "And you didn't  _eat_  it. You  _chewed_ it and spit it out."

Lily slumps theatrically in response. "I  _nearly_ ate it, then." She says with a put-upon expression and grabs the box, tossing it under the seat. She rummages through her bag and pulls out a deck of cards, asking, "What d'you reckon?"

"Go on then," Sev sighs, and Lily passes them over so Sev can deal them in.

***

Sev's soundly trounced by Lily's near continual good hands; luck of the draw (courtesy of Severine's dealing, of course) when a commotion erupts in the corridor and is swiftly followed by a series of knocks and scuffles outside their compartment. Their game is temporarily put on pause when the door rattles and a trio of boys fall in, laughing breathlessly as they hastily slam it shut behind them. The one with glasses and an unruly mop of hair is patting a rumpled, scarred blond on the shoulder, while the tallest ruffles the blond's hair. Their congratulatory exclamations stop abruptly, the reason revealing itself in the silence.

A commotion can be heard in the corridor.

The blond boy presses his face up against the glass until the tall boy slides the door open slightly to stick his head out. Lily abandons the cards in favour of joining them to investigate. Sev slides down the patterned seat fabric to join her, jostling the bespectacled boy out of place so she can stand, shoulder pressed against Lily's.

The bespectacled boy huffs and slots in next to the tall boy. They all crane their necks out into the corridor. The door slides open completely on a conveyor belt of nosy eleven-year-olds pushing it along to get a clearer view. They aren't the only ones with the idea as heads pop out all up and down the corridor. It is instantly apparent what the source of the disturbance is.

Down at the end of the carriage is something like a scene out of panto, featuring three students, hands over noses, covered in some gelatinous concoction, a group with prefects badges, sporting inverted fishtanks for heads, an open trunk leaking technicolour fumes of a distinctly noxious variety and a menagerie of feathered creatures, sharp talons gleaming, disperse the airborne toxicity with air currents borne from their frenzied flight patterns.

The tall lad leans out further, chortling as a spell cast by one of the prefects ricochets and hits the huddled students who are covered in what becomes apparent is also a slippery concoction since they squelch and slide, scrambling for non-existent purchase with windmilling arms until they smash, squealing, into another prefect. Said prefect had been leaning over the trunk, wand out, presumably inspecting it and clearly intent since he topples over from the force of the collision into the trunk, the students following, the four falling cacophonously against the door of a compartment's so heavily it caves dangerously far from the impact.

Doors further down the corridor, closer to the spectacle that had similarly been filled with inquisitive heads are quickly closed as the feathered beasts agitated further when the aforementioned prefect struggles magnificently to extricate himself from both students and trunk with no success and little help from the other prefects attempting to corral what is quickly becoming a swarm of birds that are creating something of a small windstorm in the corridor.

Sev catches a faint whiff of the noxious fumes and moves to shut the door immediately, wrestling a bit with mophead who's riveted on the action. Cries of shock, surprise, pain and dismay are muffled when Sev finally snaps the door firmly shut with a muttered spell and moves to open the window further so more fresh air can circulate.

"What happened?" Lily asks, resuming her place by the window.

"Just a bit of fun." The tall lad responds taking a seat as his bespectacled mate sprawls, swiping a card from the abandoned deck.

"They tried to kick us out of our compartment." The scarred boy explains in a muted voice and spectacles intercedes with a flippant, "Showed them we don't just roll over and take deten-"

"I'm Remus Lupin," the scarred blond hastily interrupts. Lily's frown throughout the explanation abates somewhat at the introduction. Remus nudges the kleptomaniac at his elbow sharply when the silence drags slightly.

"Sirius." He mutters, at the prompt, twirling the card in the air as he inspects it.

"James Potter." the spectacled boy chimes in, watching his mate playing with the card before moving on to eye the deck speculatively.

"I'm Lily Evans." Lily introduces herself, "pleasure to meet you." There's a brief pause where Sev doesn't really meet anyone's eyes and Lily continues, "and this is my best friend, Severine Snape."

Sirius looks up and says more than asks, "So these are Muggle playing cards, then."

"Yes." Sev snaps, snatching the card from his fingertips. "And you didn't introduce yourself properly."

"You didn't introduce yourself at all." he responds immediately, hand falling to his side, clenched in a fist, gaze a little cooler.

"We'll all get to know each other soon enough." Remus soothes, smiling hesitantly.

"Yeah, seven years of bloody schoolwork." James groans.

"Well I think it's exciting." Lily says, jutting her chin out marginally, "Learning magic in a castle is going to be wicked."

" _Magic_ -" Sirius starts and Sev's eyes narrow but Remus, picking up on Lily's excitement, has already begun with, "There's a lake too. With a sea monster in it."

"No way!" Lily exclaims, eyes gleaming.

"Yeah, that's complete bollocks." James seconds, "Everyone knows it's just Scamander in a squid suit."

Remus laughs hesitantly and only after Sirius expresses his exasperation, groaning, " _James..._ " in a near whine but with a wry grin gracing his features.

"Who's Scamander?" Lily asks.

"Newt Scamander." Sev answers, as she deftly shuffles the cards, "He wrote our Care of Magical Creatures text."

"That's right." Remus affirms, encouraging, " _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them."_

"How d'you play Muggle cards?" Sirius asks, blunt, eyeing Sev's hands expertly rearranging the deck.

Lily smiles, "Here. This is how you play..." she begins and Sev begrudgingly obliges by dealing them all a hand.

***

After they get the hang of it, James discovers the box of Bertie Bott's under the seat and fishes it out so they can introduce stakes: namely, losers have to chance a bean. The sky darkens gradually as they play and chat about magic, classes and Hogwarts; the talk turning inevitably towards Houses and family. Expressions change and tension mounts as Sev reveals what her mother (and inadvertently her father) has tangentially espoused; supremacy in magic and a high regard for what James considers dark spells.

The mood shifts irrevocably and what follows are four consecutive wins on Lily's part, Sev dealing each time, James moaning on about the injustice of it all. Lily laughs it off, relieved at having the good fortune to not taste another rank flavour. Remus cites expertise and practice as a necessary component of victory to placate Potter's whinging. Severine smirks, placing the cards in her lap for a brief moment to adjust her sleeves and Sirius abruptly asks to deal the next round. Sev's fingers stutter to a halt, gaze reflexively turning to Lily who quickly acquiesces to the request. He nearly snatches the cards from her hand and carefully distributes them to each player.

James wins the round. Sirius deals again. Remus wins that round. Sirius hands the deck back to Sev who deals. Lily wins. There is a beat of awkward silence when it is apparent Lily has won before Sev reaches for the cards again and Sirius snaps, voice low, "You're cheating."

"What?" Sev responds, pausing mid-reach.

"You heard me." Sirius responds stiffly. "You're dealing it so your friend will win."

"Sirius..." Remus starts but having nothing further to contribute, settles into an unhappy silence.

Lily intercedes with a tremulous, "Sev? Is that true? Severine?"

Sev can't look at Lily so she settles for glaring at Sirius. "You don't have to play if you can't handle losing."

"You don't have to cheat if you can't handle winning." He responds automatically.

"You don't know that I'm cheating." She snaps.

"I saw you fiddling with your sleeves before you deal."

Lily makes a strangled, soft sound but Sev still won't look at her. She has worn this shirt for the past several years. At first, it was long enough to reach her knuckles and now, when it is too short to cover her wrists, she wears it still. She responds stiffly, "That doesn't mean I'm cheating."

"Then why does  _your_  friend always win every time  _you_  deal the cards?" James asks suddenly, eyes narrowed.

" _You_  and Remus won when _your_ friend dealt the cards." Sev responds petulantly.

"Are you saying I cheated?" Sirius asks in a dangerous tone.

"I'm saying you're too fucking stupid to understand how a goddamn Muggle card game works so you have to pretend that someone's cheating to feel better about your stupid fucking-" Sev spits out cutting herself off when Sirius stands violently and James follows him a second later.

"Prove it." James nearly hisses through clenched teeth, "Prove you weren't cheating, you lying  _snake_."

Severine grips the edges of her sleeves tight, pulling slightly and says sanctimoniously, "I don't have to prove anything to you twats."

"Where's your wand then? Or did you nick your mum's again?" Sirius goads and Severine freezes.

"Alright..." Lily interjects laughing awkwardly and Remus joins in after a breath but the boys remain standing.

Severine twitches involuntarily and her wand peeks over the edge of her sweater. She scrabbles to cover it, but it's too late. Sirius's mouth twists into an ugly sneer as he spits out, "You lying bloody half a-" James shouts over him, pointing, "It's right bloody _there_!"

Sev flinches imperceptibly. She stands, letting her wand slide down her arm and into her grip. "Finish that sentence." She says directly to Sirius who's gripping his own wand as James scrabbles for his, finding it just as Remus interjects with a terse, "Alright...there's no reason to get out of hand, here..."

"It's just a game of cards!" Lily cries and Sev can't help it; she jerks at the anguish in her tone, turning to look at her and is hit dead on with a spell that has her coughing up suds.

" _James_!" Lily shouts but Sev's already returning the favour, wiping her mouth to lob a jinx and a curse at them. Neither hits as Sirius pushes James away and dives to the side.

There is a knock at the door and it slides open to reveal a spotty teenager wearing his robes and cap with a shiny prefect's badge affixed to his chest.  
"Just popping by to say you should think about getting your robes on since we're nearly there." He instructs officiously with a sort of jolly efficiency. He pauses as he takes in the scene before him and says stiffly, "There's no magic on the train." Lily thanks the boy for his warning but he lingers in the doorway for a moment and doesn't move on until Remus says rather loudly, "Best get changed then." The prefect leaves, then, and they can hear him knocking at the adjacent compartment. Sev doesn't let go of her wand but neither do Sirius and James and it's left to Remus to usher them apologetically out with the cordial excuse, "We've got to go and get our robes." Nevermind the fact that they're already wearing robes.

Lily bids Remus a stiff farewell, thoroughly ignoring Sirius and James before turning to Sev.

"Is it going to be that mad at school?"

"Nah," Sev sighs, quick to reassure as they get out their own robes, "they're just wankers."

" _Posh_ wankers..." Lily murmurs as they pull on their uniform.

"A wanker's still a wanker." Sev states, definitive, and grimaces at the lingering soapy residue in her mouth. The train slows and they both rush to the window, eager to catch a glimpse of Hogwarts.


	4. Smudges and Stains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday September 4 1971. Interlude part II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this work.  
> Acknowledgement: Thank you to beta DracoNunquamDormiens for always going above and beyond.

Sev wakes up in the early morning hours, her sheets drenched, shaking and unable to catch her breath. She lies in bed, watching the light filter across the room as the hours progress, routinely taken with fits of hacking coughs that leave her breathless; chest aching and throat raw. Her year mates come awake in stages, after what feels like a dozen such fits have passed and their usual giggles and conversation are noticeably absent and subdued as the morning progresses and Sev's coughing does not abate. No one approaches her bed and in fact, her dorm mates are unusually efficient in getting dressed and vacating the dormitory that morning. Sev relaxes once she is alone but tenses again when she hears voices outside the door, one high-pitched and nervous and the other slightly deeper and confused.

Seventh-year prefect Andromeda Black very kindly takes her to Madam Pomfrey, praising Evangeline Rowle who fetched her, for helping her friend. Evangeline Rowle snaps that Severine Snape is _not_ her friend and disappears down the hall without a backwards glance. Andromeda Black watches her go in somewhat flummoxed consternation before patting Sev's back conciliatorily and leading Sev in the opposite direction. Once seated on a cot in the infirmary, the matron runs a diagnostic charm on Sev and informs her that she has something called bronchitis and has apparently had it for quite some time. The matron starts asking her questions, brusque and businesslike, about her breathing and her chest and other things of that nature. The barrage of queries that rain down from the healer’s severe countenance is met with stubborn silence.

Andromeda Black, standing by the partition, steps in conscientiously after Sev sits silent long enough that the matron seems on the verge of a conniption. Andromeda patiently explains that this is Madam Pomfrey's duty and that she is obligated to ensure that all the students of Hogwarts are healed when sick and that at the moment Sev is clearly unwell. Madam Pomfrey purses her lips at the sturdy explanation and gives a short pause before snappishly contributing the practical concern that contagion is easily spread among so many so young and in such proximity before launching once again into a decidedly staunch and clinical line of questioning that leaves little room for any more of Sev's misgivings. It's all she can do to keep up with the interrogation and provide appropriate responses: no, she's not particularly active and yes, it's cold at home, and of course it's dusty, outside and in, it _is_ a mill town, innit, and yes, her mum _is_ a witch but Mam so loves to smoke that the back door is perpetually left open as she pops out to fob a fag off Mrs. Cow next door who adores lording her extensive knowledge of the latest neighbourhood gossip over Mrs. Snape while sharing a ciggy that there's really no point in dusting _or_ lighting a fire and wasting expensive resources and energy on the tasks.

Madam Pomfrey tuts at her answers, after which she performs a charm that engulfs Sev's head in a bubble filled with fresh air. She has her sit there and "Make sure to breathe deep, now," for what feels like ages to Sev but is in reality only half an hour.

Her chest feels lighter afterwards, a strange and discombobulating state of affairs for Sev who had become so accustomed to the weight and tightness that the absence of it is akin to flying. Madam Pomfrey tells Andromeda Black to take her to the prefect's bathroom and run a steam bath in order to organically dislodge some of the mucus in her lungs and bring her back immediately once an hour has passed.

Madam Pomfrey dispels the oxygen-rich bubble from her head and Severine fiddles with the edges of her sleeves, rubbing the fibrous fabric, worrying the threads to keep from fixating on the conversation where Andromeda Black is making every attempt to wriggle out of being definitively saddled with the chore of looking after her. The walk to the prefect's bathing facilities is awkward and tense, for Sev who is unsure of what the future holds and for Andromeda, who doesn't seem to know what to do with the likes of silent, dour and intermittently-coughing Severine Snape.

Once they've arrived at the opulent prefects' baths, Andromeda conjures a bathing costume that looks like it's from a black-and-white picture of the silent film era and directs her to a dressing room in order to change. Once Sev's managed to figure out the bathing costume and pull it on so it sufficiently covers her bits, she's left to confront herself and her bony physique. She reluctantly emerges from the changing room, fidgeting self-consciously, only _after_ Andromeda had spent _several_ minutes knocking at the door and tersely requesting she show herself.

Sev doesn't miss how Andromeda’s eyes widen when she takes in the glaringly ill-fitting conjured swimming costume and Sev scowls, shoulders hunching as she crosses her arms over her ribs and stomps over to the bath which is filling with pleasantly scented bubbles and so much steam that within minutes it is as if Sev may as well have immersed herself in the water for all she's not dipped a single toe in.

Andromeda shuts the parade of faucets off once the bubbles threaten to overflow the rim of the enormous swimming-pool-sized bath and gestures to Sev that she should step in with the pointed invitation, "Well go on in…"

Sev stands at the edge of the pool, gripping the handrail tightly and then looks up at Andromeda and can't stop from asking, "Is it deep?"

"It's not that deep at all." Andromeda reassures, "it's the perfect size for a great soak. You should be chuffed you get to use this place. Once you see what the rest of the house uses, you'll be begging me to come back here."

Sev purses her lips and shifts from foot to foot. She's been in the changing room a while and the taps have been running ever since before she got out. That's a substantial amount of water to fill even a shallow pool. She looks up at Andromeda and there must have been something in her expression because the prefect's face shifts for a brief moment in response before she sighs and says, "Just give me a minute and I'll join you, alright?" Sev nods immediately and steps away from the edge.

Andromeda disappears and returns wearing a version of Sev's own conjured swimming costume. She walks right up to Sev and steps past her into the bath, sinking incrementally with each step. Sev watches with hawk-eyed focus as Andromeda turns round, submerged chest-deep and smiles encouragingly to Sev.  
"Come on in. It's the perfect temperature." She says, her coaxing voice echoing around the tiled cavern.

Sev takes a cautious step as Andromeda swims over to what must be a seat within the pool since she reclines with her arms akimbo, leaning against the ledge. Sev takes another step and another, the water inching up in bubbling eddies until she's waist deep. A stray current swirls between her calves, pushing her into another unintentional step that has her touching the bottom of the pool, comfortably able to walk over to Andromeda without having to swim to keep her head above water. She looks over at Andromeda only to see her looking back with a smirk about her mouth. Sev frowns as she says to herself in surprised revelation, "It's not that deep!" before looking up at Andromeda and shouting hoarsely, "How come you was nearly under and I can still walk?!" She dissolves into a fit of coughs that are far less hacking then their morning counterparts but still leave her hunched over, nose skimming the surface.

Sev recovers to see Andromeda's smirk gone, to be replaced by a serious and pensive expression. She jolts when Sev meets her eyes and a cheeky grin quickly blooms when she calls back, " _Magic_!" Sev's frown deepens into a scowl at that response. Andromeda disregards Sev's sour countenance in favour of an invitation, "It's more comfortable over here! Come sit!" Sev raises her chin for a moment but she makes her way over despite her misgivings, careful to sit as far away from the lounging pureblood as space permits. There is an awkward silence for a moment before Andromeda is making stilted conversation about professors and classes and houses and spells. Sev gives short, clipped answers to Andromeda's questions before a longer response has her ending on a whisper and promptly hacking up what feels like a lung. There is a momentary pause burgeoning with what Sev feels is sure to be judgement before Andromeda launches into a lengthy and lively epic detailing her adventures and scrapes as a first year Slytherin. Sev slips into a drowsy sort of doze after a while of listening to Andromeda's initial escapades merge into advice on how to approach life as a Slytherin in Hogwarts, which excuses work on which professors and when to avoid them completely. Her monologue descends into complaints about the rigours of being both a prefect and a seventh year and eventually devolves completely into whinging about being a pureblood and a Black in particular and the often uncomfortable position she's placed in…Sev feels a hand on her arm and jerks reflexively.

"If you're going to fall asleep, better to do it out of the water." Andromeda advises in a dry tone. Sev swipes a hand at her chin which she discovers is not drool but scented bubbles. Andromeda stops Sev as she makes to leave the pool with a careful suggestion issued in the lightest of tones, "Why don't you wash your hair before you get out?"

Sev looks at Andromeda blearily before dipping her head beneath the surface, giving it a good scrub for several short seconds and emerging, sputtering as the strands drape themselves on her face, obscuring her vision. She pushes them aside roughly and Andromeda laughs, eyes crinkling as Sev looks up, pulling strands out of her mouth, thoroughly vexed.

"You look like a Murtlap mated with a Niffler." Andromeda chuckles before sighing and saying, "Here, come on over here." She moves towards the taps. Andromeda pushes several taps and they dispense unctuous concoctions of varying scents, shades and viscosity into her palms before she rubs them together until both hands are coated and approaches Sev, who balks.

"It's just potions for cleansing your hair." She explains, rushing as thick globules drip unappealing down her arm. Sev eyes the makeshift concoction with distrust before Andromeda's reaches her and quickly sets to work transferring the solution from her fingers to Sev's scalp.

She launches into what almost immediately becomes a lecture on the protocol for proper hair care and maintenance, and Sev clenches her fists in irritation. Andromeda doesn't appear to take any note of Sev's frustrated composure as she drags her by the elbow over to a clear stream of water falling from nowhere into a shallow stone trough-like apparatus built into one end of the pool-sized bath. Andromeda instructs her to place her head under the stream and helps her rinse the suds from her hair.

"My sister," Andromeda says, "is a complete nightmare." Sev splutters when Andromeda nudges her and she gets a noseful of water as the seventh year rinses some remaining sudsy sections. "Cissy used to make me help her with this until she was far too old for it." Her voice holds a smile as Sev steps away from the waterfall, thoroughly drenched, dark hair plastered to skull, neck,shoulders and back; dripping broodingly as she attempts to stomp off towards the changing room and Andromeda grabs her wrist. "It's not been an hour yet." She says, "I've set a _Tempus_ charm and we've still got a few minutes." Andromeda gestures to the far wall where a glittering nexus of shimmery threads coalesce to form an hourglass steadily losing shimmering granules of sand from the upper compartment as they fall through the bottleneck into the lower piece.

Sev looks down at her withered pruney fingers and grimaces as she eyes the steaming pool. Andromeda makes a sympathetic noise of agreement and says, "Tell you what, we can sit on the edge and I'll comb your hair." She puts a hand on Sev's shoulder and steers her towards the edge closest to the changing rooms and they take a seat, legs crossed, as Andromeda says quietly to herself, "So long as you're breathing it in, don't see what Pomfrey could have to complain about." She pulls her wand out of its bun, her hair staying in place despite the absence of the wood, the humidity acting as a bonding agent as she summons her comb. It's an intricately-carved, ivory, wide-toothed affair that she catches dexterously as it sails through the fog, firmly gripping the top of Sev's head with the other and turning it to face the stained glass window of a mermaid in repose.

"Ow." Sev gripes as Andromeda makes a particularly vigorous jerk of the comb.  
"Sorry," Andromeda responds, muttering, "You've got knots in here … I dunno if I can…work…-"  
" _Ow_ !"  
"Sorry! Just--just… Hold. Still-"  
" _Aurgh_ ! That _hurts_ !"  
"Okay..okay," Andromeda soothes, " I'm nearly done…just…hold on.."

Sev jerks away after a particularly painful pull had her eyes watering and turns to face Andromeda whose brow is furrowed, gaze focused on where Sev had just been sitting. "I'm _not_ your sister!" Sev snaps, irate, "And I don't need you combing my hair for me like I'm some kind of charity case!"

Andromeda purses her lips, corners of her mouth downturned as she cautiously placates, "I know you're not my sister, Severine. And _no one_ said you're a charity case--"

"I _heard_ you with the matron!" Sev interrupts, "You didn't want to come so…so--Just. Stop pretending and--and being so nice! And--!" Sev dissolves into coughs that wrack her frame until she's hunched over, gasping for breath. She rubs at her traitorously leaking eyes, looking up only to check how much time is left.

"Are you alright?" Andromeda asks softly and Sev bites her lips but her eyes fill and the tears spill when she blinks. She sniffles and swipes at her nose angrily, the steam doing wonders for dislodging _all_ mucous it seems, lungs and otherwise.

"First year can be tough, especially if you're ill." Andromeda says quietly. "I was lucky to have my sister with me."

"I don't have any siblings." Sev says hoarsely, clearing her throat.

"Well…it must be peaceful at home on your own, then." Andromeda offers diplomatically, and Sev's fingers twitch as she resolutely does _not_ think of the _very_ 'quiet' evenings spent as witness to the violence two people can commit to each other. Andromeda continues, oblivious, "What I wouldn't give to have a moment to myself. Honestly, Slytherin's like a big family--which is spiffing lovely _most_ of the time but sometimes I just _wish_ I could-"

"Andromeda!" a deep, smooth voice exclaims from behind them and both Sev and Andromeda twist to see the statuesque form of a well-built blonde man with a sharp chin and an expression of startled surprise on his pointy features.

"Lucius!" Andromeda returns in equally shocked tones.

"What are you doing here?" they ask simultaneously, tones accusatory and pause briefly, eyeing each other before launching into overlapping explanations that drown the other out.

"I was just-"  
"It was my-"  
"-and I couldn't say-"  
"-and how was I supposed to-"

Sev coughs and they peter out to glance down at her, Lucius with wide eyes and Andromeda with flushed cheeks. Andromeda fumbles with her comb a moment before introducing Severine who swipes at her nose once more. Lucius has got his mouth open but before any words are formed, the Tempus charm on the far wall emits a blaring klaxon as the golden nexus pulses a warning red. Andromeda hastily intones the counterspell, heedless of the comb she weilds, wand stuffed back in her bun before Lucius, lips quirking slightly, smoothly brandishes his own wand and issues forth the counterspell causing the golden hourglass to vanish, the klaxons along with it.

Sev stands quickly, Andromeda joining her as she brushes her non-existent trousers of invisible dust, the comb scraping against her bare thighs as Lucius shifts awkwardly, twirling his wand feverishly. Sev pipes up, "I have to go back to the infirmary now." she says slowly into the silence, perplexed at the two seventh years who stand as though stupefied in the opulent, mist-filled cavern. Andromeda's head snaps up at her words and she nods absentmindedly at her. Sev turns and sets off for the changing rooms, skidding to a halt when Andromeda shouts, " _Hold_ on!" Sev turns reluctantly and meanders back when Andromeda orders she return.

"I didn't spend the better part of a quarter hour wearing my arms out for you to make a mess of my work." She mutters as she tugs Sev's hair into plaits, Sev making faces the whole while. Lucius chuckles warmly at her exaggerated expressions as he moves to take a seat in some well padded chaise set against the wall.

"There." Andromeda says, satisfied, once Sev's hair has been sufficiently restrained from its usual chaotic state. She holds the plait aloft and groans slightly, "I haven't got a hairband." Sev shrugs and Lucius arouses his lounging limbs from the chaise to offer them a long, shiny, grey ribbon which Andromeda declines with an attitude of one who wishes she didn't have to, "Her hair's too clean, it'll just slide out. I need a hairband." She says apologetically and Lucius brandishes his wand with a flourish for an encore spellmanship performance of transfiguring the grey ribbon into a shiny grey hair elastic which he hands to Andromeda, fingers lingering in hers as he passes it off. Sev taps her toes impatiently and Lucius narrows his eyes down at her when Andromeda snatches her hand away so she can tie up her work to keep it from unravelling.

***

Of course she runs into the Gryffindors from the train, with the addition of a distinctly pudgy-figured, mousy-haired boy, huddled around the door of the infirmary. Potter has his nose jammed into the sliver of space between the double doors comprising the entrance while Black is pacing from brace to brace, wand out, tracing hinges within his reach. The scarred blond with a proclivity to play peacekeeper is noticeably absent. Sev slows and locks eyes with the new addition whose pale beady eyes widen as Sev gets closer. When she is close enough to see the vermillion stain on his rumpled trousers, he licks his lips and steps forward.

"You…erm…you can't go in."  
"Why?"  
"Madam Pomfrey says."  
"Then what are they doing?" Sev gestures to Black and Potter who are now holding a muttered conference by the door handles.

Peter whips round to look and quickly back, stammering, "Oh, uhm…well…we came to visit our friend and they're just…waiting?"

Sev narrows her eyes suspiciously at Potter who is surreptitiously pulling something out of his pocket and huddling with Black whose hushed exclamations border on the instructional.

"You sure about that?" she asks archly.  
"What?"  
"Doesn't sound like you know what's going on." Sev shrugs and sniffs.  
"What?! It's true!” The boy blusters, affronted and carelessly overcompensates, “Remus was sick yesterday and came here last night!"  
"So he's still here?"  
"Well-yeah…" the boy sounds slightly baffled, "why else would we be waiting to see him?"  
"I was here this morning and Remus wasn't."  
There is a brief silence before the boy continues even more perplexed, "Remus _Lupin_ ?"  
"How many Remuses do you know?"  
"Well--"

"What's going on Peter?" Black asks, coming up behind the boy. "Oh." He says when he sees Sev standing in front of Peter. She sniffles and clears her throat which feels coarse and rough from all the coughing.

"I need to go in."  
"She says Remus isn't in there!" Peter bleats, Sev's words overtaken by his piercing accusation.

Black's eyes narrow as Potter comes to join them asking, "What's all this?"

"How does she know he's not there?" Black asks Peter in a carefully neutral tone.  
"She was there this morning." Peter responds timidly, looking up at Black.  
" _She_ 's standing right bloody here." Sev snaps and shoulders past them saying, "All the beds were empty."

Sev can feel a charged silence behind her before it's filled with urgent whispers that break off just as she nears the double doors.

"Are you saying Remus is a liar?" Potter challenges boldly.

Sev pulls at the doors with no success, putting more and more of her weight on them until her chest feels tight with the exertion and she stops, breathing harder for it.

"He wasn't in our dorm this morning or at the hall for breakfast. He has to be here." Black says with some conviction.

Sev knocks quickly and turns to face them, voicing the unspoken possibility, "Maybe you just missed him….or…he's avoiding you." turning back to be let into the ward as she wipes her nose on her sleeve.

Her statement is met with an awkward silence and Sev fiddles with her sleeve, sniffling as she waits.  
"I knew you were a Slytherin when we met on the train" Potter starts, tone ugly. Sev knocks louder as Black adds in an undertone that she nevertheless picks up, "lying and cheating…"  
"Is she the one who jinxed you?" Peter asks, anxiously eager.  
"She's the one who cursed us, yeah." Potter affirms, a promise hanging in the air and Sev knocks quickly a third time, far harder than before and whirls to face the trio.  
" _She's_ right fucking here." Sev grits out, fists clenched and sniffs.  
“What were you doing _right fucking here_ , anyways?” Black asks suspiciously, mocking her words with his inflection.  
“That’s none of your business, you twats.” Sev snaps, crossing her arms self-consciously and Peter has the temerity to shift in jerky spurts, eyes rolling to Black and Potter for their misplaced bravado as benchmark of reassurance.

"Then how is it your business to lie about Remus?!" Potter is near-shouting now, wand in a white-knuckled death grip. Peter takes a jolted, involuntary step back at this outburst, head whipped to look at Potter in startled, wide-eyed surprise.

"It's the truth." She shrugs, nonchalant, "if you don't believe it, I guess the other Slytherins were right…" there is an expectant pause as Sev absently twirls a loose thread in her jumper and sniffs, "…Gryffindors _are_ morons."

Black's mouth twists unexpectedly and what he says leaves her chilled to the bone, "She's just snivelling for attention after she got separated from the only friend she has."

"That's right…" Potter says as if struck with an epiphany of dawning apprehension, "Bet she came down here hoping to see that Evans..." his voice turns singsong and childishly mean, "…only she finally figured out you're just an ugly, _snivelling_ , **snake**."

Sev pulls her wand out of her sleeve, grips it tight and spits out, "The only ugly thing I see is your face."

Black's upturned lips turn into a decidedly cruel leer as he comments, "Bit rich, coming from you and all…" and Potter laughs loudly, Peter joining in a braying spiel of honks, the trio's faces lit in a bitter halo of brittle victory.

"What's going on here?" Sev does an about-face only to be met with the long awaited Madam Pomfrey, stood sentinel in the archway, eyeing them all with stern disapproval. The Gryffindors immediately cull their expressions of malicious delight short in favour of surging forward with overlapping requests, explanations and demands culminating chiefly in one name: Remus Lupin. They are met with a blunt rebuttal and a curt dismissal which is reluctantly followed only after an assurance that Yes, Remus Lupin is indeed in the Hospital Wing and Yes, he is highly contagious at the moment so No, they absolutely cannot see him and Would they like to have their Head of House escort them to their common room for disturbing the peace especially in the infirmary where Healing is meant to take place? The thinly veiled threat of point deduction has the intended result and they slink away reluctantly, shooting sharp, pointed glances at Sev, whom Madam Pomfrey ushers into the Wing with brusque efficacy and fleeting admonitions about being a better time keeper.

Sev doesn’t beleaguer the point with someone as formidable as the Hogwarts Matron, who can dispatch the Gryffindor morons with far fewer words and no spells at all, simply the promise of tangible repercussions. Madam Pomfrey escorts her to a cot and bustles off muttering about tinctures and salves as Sev carefully catalogues the empty cots, Remus Lupin’s ‘contagious’ form occupying none of them.

 


	5. Ends and Ends I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Leaving Feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not profit from this work.

At the Leaving Feast Severine sits in close proximity to Lucius Malfoy while embroiled in an intense debate with Calpurnia Travers on the efficacy of five aside starters for the Gobstones Club. Calpurnia thinks she's mad for attempting it.

"They're polar opposites, Snape! I don't see how you can possible reconcile the differences when the one directly combats the other on basic principles!" Sev sneaks a glance at Malfoy's distinctive shining locks as she takes a tipple from her goblet of pumpkin juice. He very nearly sparkles under the bobbing candles and twinkling stars of the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling with his effervescent crisp self-assurance, coiffed and polished like a gemstone on display, attracting the eye with a pleasing quality of abundance and perfection.

Calpurnia snorts when Sev puts down her goblet. "You won the lottery with that."

Sev eyes Calpurnia with care, "I'm very lucky."

Calpurnia huffs in disbelief or shock. "You got more than _lucky_ , Snape. There's some small god smiling down on you like my mum always says. To get _Malfoy_ as your--"

Sev's lips thin as she interrupts, "I didn't _get_ him to do anything for me."

Calpurnia's tone takes on a distinctive thread of haughty skepticism, "So you're saying that Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, out of the goodness of his own heart, felt inclined to take pity on--"

"I'm not saying anything." Sev snaps, "You're the one putting words in my mouth you--" She spits out through gritted teeth.

Calpurnia's expression freezes, her mouth still open, mid-phrase as Sev snarls at her, before closing it with a snap of teeth and interrupting primly, "You are such an arse, Snape."  She turns abruptly to pile some more mash onto  her plate, giggling benignly at Warrington Cross's showboating with the gravy wheel and a peculiar spell that gave it legs.

Sev scowls into her lamb and spears it with a vigour that belies the deathly state of its corpse as she saws away a piece for eating. She hears Malfoy laughing in his customary reserved baritone and drops her utensils to reach for the water glass for the first time this evening when she feels a strange frisson of energy, a pull at her fingertips and an electric shiver up her spine. She can't stop her fingers from brushing the glass and as soon as they make contact her hand is no longer her own as it takes up the chalice and delivers it to her lips so smoothly that she could almost believe that it was herself doing it if it weren't for the shimmery trembling edge that her muscles spasm over. The moment her lips make contact the glass seems to explode and she is bombarded with some viscous gooey liquid. She's able to drop the glass now, like a scalding pan and it shatters on the table, the shards embedding themselves into any available surface that is appropriately malleable and shrieks of pain and shock accompany their flight. Sev's lips are sealed shut in affirmative measures against the now bubbling liquid that warms the longer it maintains contact with her skin as it slides down her face and drips off her chin.

Her nostrils flair with the force of her suppressed displeasure but she must be careful not to inhale any of the fluid coating her face and sliding off the slope of her prodigious nose. She feels a hand at her arm that moves her and she stiffens in response, fumbling for her wand while she is sightless and susceptible to attack. A voice accompanies the arm though the hold does not shift, "It's Andromeda, Severine. I'm just going to help you up before we look after this." She says, the pressure on her arm returning and Sev allows herself to be half led, half-levered up and over the bench. The moment she's free-standing she hears guffaws from the direction of the other tables that melds with the now growing heat seeping into her skin from the liquid coating it. All the disparate sounds subsume each other until all that remains is a heady, discombobulating pulsating ringing buzz that makes concentration especially difficult. Voices filter through as though working to plow through a particularly viscous mist and by the time they have reached her are weak and wasted from the effort.

"What's going on?" Severine can hear Professor Slughorn demand behind her, amidst the giggles, gasps and groans of her classmates.

Andromeda rushes to explain and Professor Slughorn obliges to listen by which time Severine is feeling distinctly uncomfortably with the heat getting closer and closer to a low burning sensation. She moves to retrieve her wand from her robe pocket and it is only then that Professor Slughorn seems to exclaim, blustering slightly, "Yes! Well. That's done now…Best to get her seen to Miss-- Oh? Yes Mr. Malfoy?" Lucius Malfoy's unmistakably distinct cadence/boarding school accent manages to cut through the haze.

"I would be happy to help Miss Snape, Professor Slughorn. After all, she is my partner for the Leaving Ceremony."

Andromeda's fingers tighten on her arm and Sev starts picking at her sleeve subconsciously, afraid to unlock  her lips for fear of ingesting the foul poison.

"Oh yes! Why of course, Mr. Malfoy! Very admirable of you to look after the younger years." Professor Slughorn praises warmly.

"Thank you, Professor Slughorn." Malfoy demurs and Sev feels another hand on her other arm, larger and firmer.

She's escorted from the now jeers and whispers, the clinks and clanks of dishes and utensils fading further and further until they are in the cool silence of the what must be the Great Hall. Sev whines, the discomfort building and Malfoy grinds to a halt.

"What are you doing?" Andromeda asks warily, her grip on Sev tightening once more and Sev can feel her step closer.

"She's clearly in pain, Black. I'm about to alleviate it." Malfoy says, dismissive, tone tight and cold.

"You don't know what that substance is, Malfoy." Andromeda retorts immediately, hushed and anxious, "You could harm her more than help. We need to get her to the hospital wing." She says firm, before pulling Sev along. Sev's shoulders jolt sharply when her other arm stays where it was and feels slight vertigo as her body is pulled taut trying to follow it. She is breathing heavily, focused on making it to the infirmary, wand uselessly dangling in one hand, mouth sealed by the 'prank'.

There is a tense moment of silence before Andromeda snaps, "Don't do this right now, Lucius."

"I'm not doing anything, Black," Lucius bites back, "seeing as you're obstinate enough not to see reason."

Andromeda makes a noise and hisses, "If you think that I am so unreasonable then why are still fighting so hard to get me--"

" _Evanesco_!" Malfoy cries and Sev can feel the substance reluctantly peel off her face. In a moment she is able to open her eyes, and see Andromeda utterly incensed and yet somehow exuding an air of bereavement. Lucius is standing, wand brandished and pale skin flushed with the tightly controlled rage of his expression.

Sev looks down at herself and sees that her good shirt is thoroughly, perhaps irreparably ruined. Though the substance itself has vanished, a violet stain remains as a multi-coloured imprint of the damage it has suffered and it is glaringly visible on the white cotton base of her collared school blouse. Sev instinctually reaches out to touch and is startled to notice that Lucius and Andromeda still have her in hand. She shifts to dislodge them and they jerk as they look down at her, their expressions immediately shifting. Sev doesn't miss Malfoy's small smirk and the way Andromeda folds her lips together does little to conceal their upward tilt. She scowls and asks, "What?"

"Oh, Severine…" Andromeda sighs and finally lets go of her arm to reach out a hand and cup her cheek.

"It seems that whatever was used has prolific staining capacity." Malfoy remarks in a dry voice, eyes crinkling despite his grave words.

"What is it?" Sev asks, genuine worry lacing through her question, looking up at Andromeda and Lucius with wide eyes.

"Well, erm…" Andromeda coughs suddenly, hand leaving covering her mouth as Sev tugs on her blouse to better see the staining, before looking up once more with a purposeful expression, "How purple am I?" she asks critically, equal parts scalded and resigned.

Malfoy laughs then and Andromeda elbows him. He curls over in reaction, arm pulling up to protect his flank but his eyes are merry. Andromeda shoots him a look before placating, "It's not that bad, honestly--"

"That bad?!" Sev nearly shouts but restrains herself. They are too close to the Great Hall for her to fall into the histrionics that spurred that vile nickname from those nincompoops with manes for brains.

Malfoy is chuckling now, huffing under his breath while Sev is now holding her wand aloft, aimed at herself and Malfoy cuts off to ask, curious and slightly impressed, "Do you _know_ a spell for this?"

Sev doesn't bother answering, only focusing on herself, the incantation and the wand movements, " _Scourgify_!" she says with some emphasis, her movements forceful, her chest tight.

A strange sensation passes over her, proprietary and yet remote, causeless and slightly abrasive. Sev closes her eyes, her blouse fluttering slightly, as though caught in a brief and sudden gale before calm reigns once again in the Entrance Hall. She opens her eyes and inspects her clothing immediately. The stain is no longer the bright violet hue that it was but moments ago. It's now a faded and dingy lilac grey, several of the threads look slightly shiny and frayed from the spell. She looks up and asks, "Well? Is it gone?" Lucius and Andromeda respond simultaneously, slightly taken aback, "Yes…" they say in shocked ponderment. "Severine, you look--" Andromeda starts only to be overtaken by the pompous praise of Lucius Malfoy, "You did fine work with that spell, Snape. Well done." Sev beams back, tucking her wand into her sleeve for better access and makes to return to the feast, as Malfoy does the same.

"Wait!" Andromeda calls and they both turn abruptly to look at her. "We should still go to the infirmary. Just to be sure."

Sev's lips thin and she reflexively crosses her arms as Lucius moves to put a warm hand on her shoulder, "Now, really Black…" he admonishes, "I see nothing wrong with the fine spellmanship performed by Snape."

"It's not---Lucius…" Andromeda starts to argue and then groans, "Do we--are you really going to be like this?"

"I really don't see how I can be anything but myself." Lucius responds, tone insidious, words leading, "You on the other hand, are not so true…to your house, to your history, to your family…"

"Now that's way out of line!"

"…to your very _soul_! To the magic that you have promised to--"

"You have no right to be making such baseless accusations--"

"Right?!" Lucius's grip on Sev's shoulder is now bordering on painful, but he is intent on Andromeda, neck straining while he remains stolidly in place beside Sev. " _Right_?! You want to postulate now on the merits of what is _right_?! When you have so _shamelessly_ and _thoroughly_ made the conscious _choice_ to forgo your _right--"_ Malfoy's voice continues to climb in volume, in pitch, in tone, self-righteous incredulity seeping through every syllable until he's shouting and Andromeda is shouting right back, "How **_dare_** _you_ of all people think that you have the moral high ground to criticize me when I _know_ what you and yours have done all year in defiance of all ethical boundaries … and-- and even Wizengamot Law!" Andromeda ends on a gasp when Lucius moves so quickly at these words it is as though he has apparated into her space. They are face to face now, noses mere centimetres apart. Both have their wands drawn and levelled at each other as they snarl and hiss their argument uninterrupted and no sign of stopping.

The door of the Great Hall creaks open in that moment and Sev whips to face the intruder upon their scene only to be met with the figure of Headmaster Dumbledore, sanguine and measured as he walks over to Andromeda and Lucius muttering ever more feverishly as their wands now dig into the other's throat. "Pardon me, my dear." Professor Dumbledore says, smiling benevolently down at Severine. "I do believe the elves have outdone themselves tonight with the custard tart. I highly recommend you take the chance of grabbing one up while they're piping hot."

Sev is sure she looks bewildered. She cannot seem to comprehend the words coming out of the Headmasters mouth while Andromeda and Lucius sound like they're on the verge of either opening a snake charming emporium or hexing each other to incapacitation or, judging by their stances and wands: decapitation. She looks uncertainly up at Headmaster Dumbledore, fidgeting as she sees Lucius and Andromeda, now clearly struggling but Headmaster Dumbledore's periwinkle blue robes are blocking her sight and she meets his eyes as he says, his smile a little grimmer, "I assure you that Miss Black and Mr. Malfoy will join you shortly."

Sev sighs and returns to the Great Hall, biting her lip in an absentminded manner until she catches sight of the Gryffindor table as she passes by and makes eye contact with James Potter who is laughing uproariously at some dramatic re-enactment from Black, no doubt of her reaction to the explosion, his face split in a grin of malicious glee. When he meets her eye, he calls out, "Seems like even water doesn't like your slimy skin, eh, Snivellus!" His words are met with jeers and giggles that swallow him up into their safe, obscuring embrace. Sev's arm is out and she is one twitch away from her wand sliding into her palm when the door of the Great Hall bursts open behind her and Lucius Malfoy, Andromeda Black and Headmaster Dumbledore file through into the Hall. Sev takes one look at the murderous expression on Malfoy's face and slides quickly into a seat between Alicia Carrow and Miranda Shunpike who passes her the trifle once she's seated with the welcoming words of, "Potter's a wanker."  
Sev's shoulders slump. "Tell me actual news Pikey." She says as she spoons the pudding onto a plate of her own.  
"We've still got the Ceremony to get through." Alicia makes a vague noise of commiseration while Miranda clucks. "Blighters won't try a thing when everyone's paying attention."

"They _are_ cowards." Sev agrees heartily as she passes the trifle back and Alicia snorts into her sorbet. "Cowardly lions…" Carrow muses and Miranda interjects, "Sounds about right."

"It _is_ right." Sev concludes soundly, as they tuck into their desserts.

***

"It's a talisman." Lucius Malfoy informs her as he stoops slightly to bestow the gold piece and Sev places his graduating cap on his head, her own painstakingly improved over a whole year's worth of trial and error. He places his on hers. It slides down slightly lower than is standard and he gives her a crooked grin.

As the stars sparkle and the torches along the path stand sentinel over the whole student body, the Hogwarts graduates descend onto the lake and take their final farewell of the majestic turrets and spires of the castle they called home for seven years.


End file.
